


It's Only Two Weeks, Right?

by loves_books



Series: Desert Reunion [2]
Category: A-Team (2010), A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mission fic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to 'Desert Reunion'. Face is offered the chance to take part in an undercover operation being run by the mysterious Agent Smith of the CIA. How will he and Hannibal cope with their time apart, and will the mission be a success?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Only Two Weeks, Right?

Hannibal’s first instinct, when they ask to borrow his lieutenant for extended undercover work, is to laugh in their faces and say ‘no chance in hell’. He tells himself that his reaction isn’t about the fact that he and Face are lovers, isn’t about the fact that they haven’t been apart for more than a few days since they first gave in to all the sexual tension that had been creating a problem between them. 

No, his reaction is the same as any concerned CO being asked to lend out his highly skilled XO for a dangerous mission where he will effectively be working on his own for weeks on end. Face isn’t trained for extended work undercover, although Hannibal has no doubt at all that his boy could do it, easily. Face has the gift of being whatever he needs to be, whoever he needs to be, which means any kind of acting or deception comes easily to him. It took Hannibal a long time to get through all the masks the kid wears on a daily basis, until he finally got to see the wonderful man underneath: Templeton Peck, the man he has fallen in love with, the man who miraculously loves him back.

“We had someone in position already, Colonel,” the man behind the sunglasses tells him. CIA, of course. “We had to pull him out, and we need someone new to go in and pick up where he left off.”

“Why Face?” Hannibal asks again. He doesn’t bother asking why they had to pull out their previous man – he’s had enough dealings with the CIA to know he won’t get an answer. “Surely you have other agents you can use?”

The agent exchanges a long look with General Morrison, who is seated behind his desk on the far side of the room. Hannibal watches as his old friend clears his throat, leans forward in his chair. “The Rangers were always going to get involved, Hannibal. Joint operation, in two weeks’ time, put pressure on Fasul and see what he does. That’s when we need Lieutenant Peck in position.”

Fasul is the Afghan warlord they are trying to capture, suspected of dealing illegally with some of the civilian contractors associated with the military. Hannibal doesn’t know many specifics just yet, but he knows the type. There are probably illegal weapons involved, perhaps drugs. And they want to put Face right at the front of this. Away from Hannibal and his team.

As much as he wants to say ‘no’, he knows this needs doing. And if Russ has faith that Face can do this, then… “I won’t order him to do it,” he hears himself say. “You can talk to him, explain what you can. Hopefully explain more than you’ve told me. And then it’s his call.”

The CIA agent looks to Morrison again before nodding slowly. Perhaps he’s a little surprised Hannibal can get away with his attitude, but he and Russ have worked together for decades now, and the attitude is almost expected.

“Very well, Colonel. Let’s get him in here.”

* * *

Face’s first instinct, when they explain what they need him for, is ‘hell yes, bring it on’. He’s never done anything like this, not for an extended period of time, but he loves the jobs where he can get stuck into a good con. And this sounds like a very good con indeed.

Dodgy warlords, suspicious civilian contractors, CIA involvement, Ranger back up – three teams of Rangers, including Hannibal’s team at a distance – and they want him to head it up on the ground? It should make him nervous, it does actually make him very nervous, but at the same time it’s a challenge and he loves a challenge.

“When do I need to decide?” he asks, wanting to talk this over with Hannibal first. His colonel had been asked to step outside before the mysterious CIA man would reveal any more details to him, suggesting this is really very highly classified. “General?”

“We need to know today, Lieutenant.” Morrison stands, and Face knows he is being dismissed, rising to his feet and standing to attention. “If you agree, you’ll leave with Agent Smith this evening, and you’ll be in place by tomorrow night.”

* * *

Hannibal is careful to say nothing as Face paces back and forth in their tent, his body practically humming with tension. He sits in the canvas chair, legs crossed casually, and tries to remind himself that his boy is the one who has to make this decision. 

“What do you think, boss?” Face asks for the hundredth time, yet again not waiting for Hannibal to reply before talking himself through his options again. “It’s a good job, y’know? But am I the right one for it? Surely the CIA have better people they can use?”

Hannibal watches as Face runs both hands through his hair again, messing up his already messy curls, and has to smile. His boy is always so particular about his hair, keeping it tidy and styled just right, but that is always the first thing that goes when he starts stressing. And he is stressing, Hannibal realises with a sudden frown. Maybe he’s kept quiet for too long.

“Face… Face, stop…” Climbing to his feet, Hannibal catches his boy by the shoulders as he paces past yet again, pulling him to a stop and facing him squarely. “They asked you because they think you can do it. Because the Rangers are going to be involved anyway, and they want someone on the ground.”

“So you think I should do it?” Trusting blue eyes stare into Hannibal’s. “You think I can do it?”

“Of course I think you can do it. I think you’d be amazing.” He uses his hands on Face’s shoulders to pull his boy into a hug, relishing the way Face always folds right into him, his forehead coming to rest on Hannibal’s shoulder and long arms wrapping around his back. “Do I think you should do it? I think that has to be up to you, sweetheart.”

As it always does, that particular pet name makes Face shiver a little in his arms. So little love his boy has had in his young life, Hannibal reflects for the millionth time. So much love he deserves, this wonderful, beautiful, talented man, always so full of self-doubt.

“Two weeks, boss,” Face murmurs. “It’s a long time to be apart.”

Hannibal pulls back at that, framing his lover’s face in his big hands. “I know, Temp. But what did I tell you, when we started this?”

“That we have to do our jobs, more than anything,” his boy whispers, a sad little smile on his handsome face. “That ‘us’ can’t get in the way of that. That there are times when you have to be the Colonel, and other times when you are my lover. And mine alone.”

Passion rising in Face’s stunning eyes now, but they need to finish this conversation before Hannibal gives in to the urge to kiss him. Face needs to make his decision.

“I won’t force you to do this, kid. It has to be your choice.”

Face nods, even as his head is still held gently by Hannibal. “I know. And I’ve decided.”

The colonel knows, even before he asks. Face might have needed Hannibal’s reassurance, but he was always going to do this. His brilliant boy, always so keen for the next adventure, the next challenge. And Hannibal knew Face wouldn’t be able to resist this particular challenge.

“I know you’ll make me proud,” he tells his boy honestly, and for a moment those blue eyes get a little moist, but Face quickly blinks the threatening tears away. “How long do you have?”

“Couple of hours.” The hands still loosely resting on Hannibal’s waist slide down to rest on the seat of his pants, not squeezing just yet, but an undeniable hint. “Time to pack, and maybe time for a shower?”

A very deliberate squeeze to his backside. And Hannibal pulls Face close and kisses him hard.

* * *

It’s all Face can do to hang on and try to remember not to scream, as Hannibal has him up against the wall of the shower, teeth sunk into his shoulder. He wraps his legs a little tighter around his lover’s waist, hands desperately scrambling for purchase on the slippery tiles, grateful beyond belief that their current base has real, solid showers rather than flimsy tents. Real showers let Hannibal really go for it, especially when Face remembers to lock the door behind them on the way in. Real showers let Hannibal lift him even higher as he thrusts deep into Face, firm strokes hitting his happy button on every single push in.

He gives up trying to get a grip on the tiles, settling for wrapping his arms tightly around Hannibal’s strong neck instead, hauling his lover closer. Not that they can get much closer, he thinks with a giggle, as a particularly strong thrust nearly drives his head through the ceiling, and the whole world whites out for a second.

“Love you, John,” he manages to gasp, feeling his orgasm stalking ever closer. “Oh, yes – ”

Hannibal lifts his head away from Face’s shoulder for just a moment, long enough to seize his lips in a burning kiss and whisper, “Love you too, Templeton. Come for me?”

And as Hannibal bites back down into the meat of Face’s shoulder, sucking hard enough to break blood vessels and leave a deep mark, Face lets himself go. Not like he had a choice in the matter, as Hannibal’s enormous, wonderful cock splits him in two, reaching for his heart, and as his own erection is ground hard between their stomachs. The dim shower lighting fades away altogether as his whole world dissolves into white, and liquid lightening shoots through his entire body.

Face has no idea how long it is before he eventually floats back down to earth. He comes back to the feel of gentle kisses being pressed to his lips, his forehead, his neck. To the feel of strong arms holding him up, even though his feet are back on the floor now, and he manages to blink his eyes open to see Hannibal right there, a huge Cheshire cat grin on his face.

“Hmm… Hi…” he manages, after another minute.

“Hi.” Another gentle kiss on the lips. “You back with me?”

“Think so.” Face tries to stand by himself, grateful for Hannibal’s strong hands on his hips as his feet threaten to slide away from him on the wet tiles. “Wow, Boss…”

Hannibal laughs, rolling his head a little, maybe working out a kink in his neck. That was the most energetic they’d been for a while, Face muses, as a wonderful little aftershock shivers up his spine. “Had to give you a good send off,” his colonel tells him softly. “Make sure you want to come back.”

“I’ll always want to come back to you.” Face keeps his voice as steady as he can, even as he reaches over to turn off the shower. Without the running water, the shower block is suddenly too quiet and echoey, and real life seems to crash back over them both. “Two weeks is nothing, John. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Hannibal kisses him one last time before he steps back, and Face wraps his arms around his chest, cold without his lover’s touch. “Two weeks is something, baby,” Hannibal tells him. “Just be careful, and be safe. And come home to me.”

“Promise.”

* * *

The first night passes in a complete whirlwind, and Face barely has time to think for himself, let alone time to miss Hannibal. The CIA expect him to memorise a massive amount of information in less than twenty-four hours, and yes, he knows his memory is fantastic, but he’s stepping into a mission that’s already been underway for several weeks, replacing someone at the last minute, and they need him to be fully up to speed. It’s a lot to ask.

He tries to hit the ground running. Memorising the detail is the easy part, at the end of the day – knowing enough about the company he’s supposed to be a part of, knowing the right names, who the CIA suspect are already involved, who they think are innocent. Knowing enough about Fasul and his own enormous operation, names of bodyguards, names of security services… There are a lot of details, and he spends most of the night just pouring over documents, the mysterious Agent Smith grilling him repeatedly.

He asks about the agent he’s replacing, and isn’t surprised to find they tell him nothing. Hannibal had warned him, before he left base, that the CIA wouldn’t tell him more than they had to, that anything they thought he didn’t need to know just wouldn’t be mentioned. All Smith will tell him is that the agent had to be removed at short notice, and that Fasul is expecting his replacement tomorrow night. 

Face doesn’t know if being expected is necessarily a good thing, under these circumstances.

He learns the main focus is weapons trading and drugs, just as Hannibal had suspected. He will be posing as a member of a private security firm, who are suspected of illegally obtaining weapons from the US army and trading them for equally illegal drugs with Fasul and his empire. Face really wants to get these guys. Scum, he thinks, and concentrates harder on learning everything he needs to know. 

“You’ll have to think on your feet a fair bit,” the agent tells him, as they work on into the small hours of the morning. “Know what deals are legit, spot which ones are dodgy. Get right in and make the deals yourself.”

Scamming and trading. Easy as pie, Face thinks. He has his reputation for a well-earned reason after all, and he can’t help wonder if that is yet another reason the CIA chose him to step in. 

Finally, as the pitch-black sky starts to lighten to the grey of dawn, Agent Smith lets him rest for a few hours. He’ll be heading out to join his new company that afternoon, so he knows he really should sleep while he can. He’ll need to be on his toes for the next couple of weeks, certainly. 

But, as exhausted as he is, his mind keeps turning over and over, all the names and faces he’s memorised in such a short space of time. His tiny cot is small and cold, the thin blanket they give him scratchy against his skin. In the dark of the room, the doubts start to creep in. He starts to wonder why he’s putting himself through all this. Does he really think he can do this? He’s not trained for this, after all. He’s a Ranger, not a spy, and certainly not an actor.

He tries to control his breathing, focussing on taking long, deep breaths to calm his panic, just as Hannibal taught him years ago, back when he was just a nervous kid, fresh out of Ranger school. And thoughts of Hannibal finally let him relax. Hannibal thinks he can do this. Hannibal has faith in him. Hannibal loves him.

It’s only for two weeks, Face tells himself, tugging his blanket tight and imagining it’s Hannibal’s strong arms wrapping around his body. He can do this for two weeks.

* * *

The first night passes slowly, for Hannibal. Face’s departure happened so quickly it practically left him spinning, watching his boy march away to the CIA chopper with his kitbag slung over his shoulder, and that mysterious Agent Smith by his side – Hannibal laughs, a humourless laugh, to think of the agent. Could he have picked a more common name if he’d tried? A sure way to scream ‘fake name’ to the world. There was a good reason Hannibal preferred his nickname to his birth name after all. No one ever believed ‘John Smith’ was real.

He tries to make sure life goes on as normal. The rest of his team are on downtime right now, a well-earned week off after a busy and difficult run of missions, and he goes for a few drinks with the guys, sings songs around their campfire, makes sure they are all ok. They ask after Face, of course they do; the kid’s popular in the team, their baby Ranger still even though they’ve been together a couple of years, and some of the older guys can still be a bit protective. Hannibal knows that, even though Face says he hates that, secretly he loves it. A ready-made family of brothers, for the kid who never had a family. 

Hannibal tells them the kid is fine, that he’s off on some training exercise, then changes the subject. He doesn’t think his team believe him completely but, living the lives they do, they trust him enough to let it go. They trust him to speak up if Face is in trouble, and Hannibal promised himself long ago that he wouldn’t betray that trust.

He keeps his mind off his boy until the last of the embers from the campfire die away, and he can’t put off going to bed any longer. The tent he and Face share seems very large and very quiet all of a sudden, their makeshift bed far too big for him by himself. It’s the work of a minute to dismantle the bed, which Face made by joining three standard Army cots together, giving them the room to spend long nights wrapped up in each other’s arms. Now, in a single cot, Hannibal tells himself he doesn’t miss Face as badly. It’ll only be for two weeks, after all, nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Still, it takes him a long time to fall asleep that night.

* * *

Slipping into a new life, into a lie, shouldn’t be as easy as this, Face can’t help thinking. His frantic night of memorising every scrap of information the CIA gave him has paid off, and the next afternoon he walks straight into his new ‘job’ as a private security consultant, no questions asked. The guys he’s working with now are obviously expecting him, or at least, they’re expecting ‘Jim Carter’, and he hits the ground running.

As a Ranger, even a fairly new one, he’s had enough dealings with these sorts of private companies to have fairly low expectations of meeting anyone with a brain and, sure enough, they are all big, beefy ex-military types who seem to have had more than a few brain cells knocked loose over the years. His own cover, as a Ranger-dropout, is absolutely convincing, and he flashes his tattoo whenever asked, glad he has that bit of proof to silence the more suspicious among his new colleagues. 

He’s still so proud of his ink, remembering the day Hannibal had taken him to the discreet little shop off-base, back near Benning. It had been after his first mission with the team, a trial-by-fire that had gone wrong in every way possible. But Hannibal had brought them all back safely, the job had been classed a success, and the celebrations had still been going on a week after they’d stumbled out of the desert and straight onto a transport home. 

Face remembers Hannibal standing by his side the whole time the tattoo artist had worked, just watching, a comforting presence when the constant sting of the needle and the growing pain threatened to overwhelm him. And the result was better than anything Face could have dreamed of. Proof that he belonged somewhere, at last. Proof that he belonged with Hannibal. Belonged to Hannibal.

But now, it’s an easy con to show how disillusioned he had been with life in the Rangers, to drop enough hints about his dishonourable discharge, a few casual suggestions about drug use somewhere in his past. It’s an easy con to edge closer to the right people, or rather, the wrong people, the people the CIA have told him to focus on. The people suspected of working with Fasul.

Who he meets that first night, just as planned. A very brief meeting, in the company of numerous security guards from the warlord’s empire, as well as a large team from Face’s new company. A surprisingly small man, for someone so important, but with an air of power about him that warned people not to get in his way. They don’t even shake hands, but Fasul offers him a steely stare and a firm nod, turning away to whisper something to one of his guards. Another nod, and a promise that they will talk soon, and Face is swept away by the crowd of people, losing sight of the man. 

Not quite what he was expecting, not after Agent Smith’s suggestion that Face had been ‘expected’. Is that a good thing or not? Face prides himself on being excellent at reading people, but Fasul has a poker face to rival his own, no hint of suspicion or knowledge crossing through his dark eyes. And for one brief second, Face longs to talk to Hannibal about everything, to share his thoughts and concerns, to bounce his ideas off his lover. But, the next second, he is called on to meet yet another company director, and thoughts of Hannibal fly from his head. ‘Jim Carter’, he reminds himself. Not Lieutenant Peck. Not Face. 

Thoughts of Hannibal stay far from his head as the first day turns into the first week. He lives and breathes as ‘Jim Carter’, finding the security job itself mindless and simple, leaving him ample time to tease out the relationships between the guys he’s working with. The CIA are mostly right, he thinks, though they’ve got the ‘man in charge’ wrong. It isn’t the big Scot they call Jock, no. He’s sure it’s actually a smaller guy, a quieter guy, named Dinsdale, nicknamed Dinny. 

Face bides his time, two days still before his first check-in, and bonds with Dinny over a bottle of whiskey and a fabricated sob-story about a Dear John letter he got, going with his gut instinct that DInny is running from something. Sure enough, there’s a broken heart lurking in the other man’s recent past, and by the next morning, they are firm friends. Bonds are made easily out here, Face has found, although only shallow, immediate bonds. Trust takes longer, especially between men like these.

Which is why he is so surprised when, the very next morning, Dinny asks him to join his small team heading out on a patrol. And, in a tent in the middle of nowhere, he is walked straight into a meeting with Fasul.

* * *

Slipping back into old habits shouldn’t be this hard, Hannibal can’t help thinking. How did he ever survive in the Rangers for so many years without Face by his side? It isn’t like they’ve never been apart before. There have been days when Hannibal had to attend meetings, extended planning sessions stretching from one day into the next. There have been training sessions for Face, most recently his week-long advanced sniper course, though Hannibal had been able to join him after a few days as an ‘interested observer’. There have been nights they couldn’t spend together, nights when it hadn’t been possible to share their usual tent. So Hannibal should be able to cope just fine. He’s done it before.

It’s different this time, though. This is the first time one of them has gone on a mission without the other, and Hannibal had always thought that, if the time came, it would be him sent to work away, and Face waiting at base alone. He is the Colonel, after all. He is the one with decades of Black Ops experience under his belt. Not Face. Not his boy.

Still, he’s coped before and he has to cope now. But he has too much time to think, those first days, days before Face is due to check-in with his contacts. Days where anything could be happening, without the CIA or the military having the first clue. 

His team are meant to be on down-time, for now, but he gets some basic training sessions going anyway, keeping them busy as much as giving himself a focus. The men grumble good-naturedly but get stuck in with gusto, and Hannibal throws himself into the sessions with everything he has, running further and faster than his men, climbing higher, beating them into the ground when they spar. He tries to exhaust himself during the day so the nights get easier, but it doesn’t work all that well. His bed is still too big and too cold. 

He finishes all his paperwork, for the first time in what must be years. Morrison’s aide looks at him as if he’s grown three heads when he hands in his armful of beige folders, all stamped and filed correctly. At least, he hopes they are all stamped and filed correctly. Face usually helps him with his paperwork, something Hannibal has always teased his lover about very gently. His tough, strong baby Ranger, so comfortable holding whatever weapon he is given, also so confident sorting through Hannibal’s post-mission reports and knowing form A-3 has to be attached to note D-1.

One time, Hannibal had made a crack about Face making someone a good little secretary one day, and that had resulted in his office door locked and blocked with a filing cabinet, while he bent Face over the desk and pounded into his boy as hard as he could. The younger man hadn’t been able to walk quite right the next day, though the Cheshire Cat grin hadn’t left his handsome face either, and Hannibal feels a twitch in his briefs as he hands in the last of the files, thinking about that afternoon.

He tidies their tent, as much as it needs tidying. They don’t have much, not out here on deployment, so there isn’t much to get messy. Still, there is sand to sweep out, so much sand, and the stray item of clothing to be found beneath cots and stuffed into forgotten corners. He finds Face’s favourite blue silk shirt trapped beneath their weapons locker. The one Hannibal teased him about bringing with him to Afghanistan, though he loves the way the blue matches his boy’s incredible bright blue eyes so perfectly. The one he was glad Face had, when the team were sent to Germany overnight unexpectedly, and they had managed to sneak a private dinner for two at a posh restaurant, when they should have been talking politics and schmoozing the brass.

He snaps at his men, and hates himself for it. He wants something to do, something real. There is no planning to be done, not yet, though the General assures him that the Rangers will be getting involved next week. Face is due to make his first ‘contact’ in just a couple of days – though that won’t be with Hannibal and his team, as much as he might want it to be – and the real planning can begin in earnest then. Hannibal growls at his old friend, knowing Russ won’t take it personally, complaining about sitting still and waiting when he could be doing something useful.

Russ tells him to go run laps, or find something to shoot. But Hannibal has too much time to think, to wonder about his boy. He hopes Face is safe, hopes his job is going well. And continues to count down the hours until he can hold his boy once more.

* * *

It’s complicated. Of course it is, Face knew it was going to be, but things seem suddenly both far more complicated and far simpler at the same time, face to face with the man whose capture is the focus of his undercover work. Fasul doesn’t speak much, two beefy bodyguards handling most of the conversation with Dinny, while Face just watches and listens, trying to figure out exactly what deals they are talking about. Trying to figure out why Dinny would bring him here – he’s being tested, obviously, as the new guy. He just needs to figure out how to pass the test.

As he listens, he wonders if he should speak up, join in. Agent Smith told him to get involved and make his own deals, and as Bodyguard Number One – he knows the man’s name of course from all his studying, though they haven’t been introduced so he daren’t use it – starts talking Dinny through a new list of weapons Fasul would like to acquire, Face sees a way in.

“I know a guy,” he says, taking half a step forward, away from the wall of the tent where he’s been hovering. “You probably got your own sources already, but, y’know…”

Fasul whispers something to Bodyguard Number Two, who nods before firing something off in Pashto to Bodyguard Number One. Dinny just nods along, looking serious but offering Face a quick smile when he catches his eye. Perhaps he is going to pass this test after all.

“We lost some good contacts when we lost Dave,” Dinny tells him quickly and quietly, while the bodyguards continue to talk. 

‘Dave’ was the man Face replaced, the agent that had to be pulled out at short notice. Face hasn’t been able to find out any more about him since he’s been out here – some of his new colleagues simply shrugged when he asked, as if they expected people to come and go with no explanations, while others laughed a little. The laughter made Face more concerned than the silence, and he remembers again Hannibal’s warning that the CIA wouldn’t tell him everything. Something obviously happened to ‘Dave’. Something bad, he thinks. 

The rest of the meeting passes in a blur, requests exchanged, hands shaken, lots of backslapping and hearty laughter. Face isn’t foolish enough to think he’s passed the test completely, nothing is that simple, but he’s taken a big step in the right direction. Fasul shakes his hand as they part, his grip almost bordering on painfully tight, a reminder that he needs to prove himself here. An unspoken threat of consequences if he doesn’t perform as expected.

Face doesn’t need the threat, nor does he need the talking to he gets from Dinny on their way back to the base, though he plays along, of course he does. It’s part of the job, part of the person he needs to pretend to be – he has to be new to this, willing to learn from his colleagues, and equally willing to get stuck straight into the dirty work and dirtier deals. 

As much as he already hates these people for all the illegal deals which have clearly been struck before – weapons stolen from the US Army, not to mention the drugs ruining the lives of innocent people – the conman in him finds it easy enough to push his morals aside, for now. He can see how easy it might really be to slip into the sort of lives Dinny and his new colleagues live. It’s the sort of life he might have ended up living, without Hannibal’s steady guidance and love. He’s never felt luckier in his whole life. 

At least he has something solid to report now, when he makes that call the next day. His first official check-in, and he unwraps the secure radio he’s been keeping hidden in his clothes, takes it out with him on one of his first solo patrols, hoping he’s remembered the codes he had to learn that first night with Agent Smith. That all seems so long ago now, though it’s not even been a week yet.

“Charlie two Bravo three niner,” he says into the radio, feeling a little foolish if he’s honest with himself, but the response is immediate.

“Delta five Charlie Charlie Tango.” Not the mysterious Agent Smith, nor Hannibal, but still a familiar voice, though it takes him a minute to place it. “How you doing, boy? You safe to talk?”

It’s Major Jackson, who leads one of the other Alpha Units and knows Hannibal pretty well. Face quickly passes on what he’s learned so far, asking for more info on Dinny, and placing his orders for Fasul’s shopping list. He also asks for some extras, just to get him on everyone’s good side at the security company. Nothing major, just some little luxuries – specialist beers, certain chocolate bars, a couple of DVDs he’s overheard being discussed.

Jackson listens, asks a few questions, and wraps things up pretty quickly. No new orders from Smith, just keep doing what he’s doing. They’ll meet in two days’ time with his supplies, including most of the guns he’ll needs to produce to impress Dinny and keep Fasul interested. The easy stuff, the things Fasul could get in other ways. Face hates that they have to give the warlord anything, but it’s the best bait they have. Not the bigger weapons, the specialist stuff. Not yet. They’ll keep those for the planned assault in a week’s time, assuming everything else goes according to schedule. Then it’ll be ‘game on’, and the Rangers will swing into action.

Before Face turns the radio off, Jackson comes back on the line. “Nearly forgot: message from your boss, boy,” the Major tells him, the static-filled connection just about holding. “Says to stay safe and keep your head up.”

“Tell him thanks, Sir, and I’ll see him soon.” Then the radio goes dead, and Face is left alone again. He breathes deeply in the hot, dry desert air for long minutes, absorbing everything, feeling the slight pang of disappointment. He’d hoped, foolishly perhaps, that Hannibal’s team might be his primary contacts, that his lover might be the man on the other end of the radio. 

But perhaps it’s for the best. He knows Hannibal is thinking of him, knows his lover will be part of the orchestrated assault, when it does happen. For now, he has to stay focussed on his job. So much unsaid in Hannibal’s simple message, but it gives him strength nonetheless. He can do this. 

* * *

So much more Hannibal had wanted to say to Face, of course, but he’d had to be satisfied with a simple message, a message any concerned CO might send to an undercover officer. Jackson is a good man, with a solid team behind him, a great point of contact for Face – the two Alpha Units don’t work together often, of course, but Hannibal knows the other team by reputation. Tough guys, all of them, but good soldiers.

His own team are tough guys, too, and clever with it. Word has started to get around that there might be a big job coming up, involving multiple units, and Jackson’s team is rumoured to be at the very heart of it. Even as classified as it is, in a small base like theirs, full of tight-knit units, rumours spread like wildfire. Hannibal’s boys are clever – they have one member currently unaccounted for, with rumours of a Ranger working undercover. It doesn’t take them long to put two and two together.

They don’t waste time asking if Face is safe, though Hannibal doesn’t doubt for a moment that they are worried about him, their baby Ranger. Nothing they do is safe, not in their line of work, though being out there alone brings a whole new level of danger.

They do ask when they can go get him, when they can get involved. When they can ‘go kick some bad-guy’s ass’, as his pilot says so charmingly. Hannibal’s heart swells even as he makes no comment, biting down hard on another cigar and just quirking an eyebrow as his boys pester him. His team of brothers, just as he’d always wanted them to be. His own first teams, back when he was just a kid fresh out of West Point, had never had this sense of truly caring about each other, really caring about the man inside the uniform. Brothers, these men, rather than just soldiers.

He isn’t the only one here who loves Face, he knows that. But he is the only one who is in love with Face, and he tries to keep his worry under control as he fends off their questions, keeping what little he does know carefully to himself.

When Jackson’s team is due to check-in with Morrison, Hannibal makes sure he is in the tent, ignoring the glare he gets from Agent Smith, who has somehow reappeared in the base. Smith doesn’t ask why he’s there, so Hannibal doesn’t ask either. He knows he won’t get an answer, and Morrison’s word is law here, so he stays, quietly in the background, just listening.

Face is safe, that’s the main thing, and the knot in Hannibal’s chest relaxes just a fraction. Sounds like Face is doing well, too, though that’s no surprise. Of course Face would do well at this early part, making new connections, using the information the CIA gave him. Hannibal tries to hide his smile as Jackson feeds back everything Face has learned already, but knows he’s failing when Morrison catches his eyes and offers him a smile of his own.

Agent Smith frowns hard when Jackson asks for more information on a particular colleague of Face’s, one his boy thinks is actually the ringleader. “He definitely said Dinny? Not Jock?” asks the Agent, scribbling furiously in a tiny notepad. 

“Definitely Dinny,” comes the reply, before Jackson starts reeling off the list of things Face has requested. Hannibal laughs this time to see Smith’s face when the expected list of weapons and ammo turns into beer, chocolate and films. Face is going all out to make friends, by the looks of it, and rightly so. He has to stay safe, keep himself free of suspicion, when the Rangers make their move.

Before Jackson signs off, he relays Face’s brief message to Hannibal. The colonel just nods, thanking the Major, knowing so much has to be left unsaid between them in public. Face is safe, and that has to be enough for now. He has to stay focussed, his boy, just as Hannibal does now there is finally work to be done. 

The planning can begin in earnest now, with Face as settled in his role as he can be after only a few days. Finally, Hannibal can throw his energy into arranging the finer points of a coordinated assault, involving several Ranger units and working with the CIA, rather than filling his days with mindless activities to distract himself from just how much he has missed Face’s presence by his side. Planning is what Hannibal does best, and it’s time to get the ball rolling. 

* * *

It’s been over a week since Hannibal last laid eyes on his boy, and he has to restrain himself from sprinting down the hill and sweeping Face into his arms the moment his lover steps out of the hut, leading three other men towards where Jackson and his team are waiting with boxes piled high. Hannibal’s role here is purely surveillance, his team poised behind him with guns ready in case there is need of back-up. 

He knows he’s holding the binoculars too tightly, can feel the creak in his knuckles as he presses them to his eyes, but he keeps them steady as he follows Face’s movements. His boy looks good. No, that isn’t nearly enough – Face looks great, tanned and healthy as always, but relaxed and smiling, the beginnings of a beard on his chin. But even from this distance, Hannibal can tell Face is also on edge, incredibly alert and focussed, even as he laughs and jokes with the three civilians he’s with, presumably men from the company he’s working for right now. Men who are heavily involved in the illegal trading taking place.

Major Jackson and his team are all wearing civilian clothing right now, and the meeting doesn’t seem to attract undue attention, even if it is taking place in broad daylight on the edge of a busy market. Hannibal watches through the binoculars as hands are shaken all around, as Jackson gestures to the boxes they’ve brought, boxes Hannibal knows contain most of the weapons Face had requested for Fasul, as well as the extras his boy wanted. He watches as Face takes a step back once the two groups are together, clearly letting his new colleagues incriminate themselves – these digital binoculars are recording everything – and two men in particular seem to do most of the talking, one a big, burly man and one slightly smaller, noticeable paler even from this distance. 

Hannibal remembers from Face’s report that these two are almost certainly Jock and Dinny, both at the forefront of the dodgy dealings. Jackson has a packet for Face including more background information on both men, although Agent Smith still seems convinced that Dinny has little to do with things. Typical CIA, thinks Hannibal, refusing to accept information from their man on the inside, so certain they couldn’t possibly be wrong – hopefully this footage will show Face was right on the money.

No sound, unfortunately, the risks involved with Jackson wearing a wire far too great to consider at this early stage. Hannibal has been involved with planning this every step of the way since Face first checked in two days ago – this trade now, then a further exchange in a day or two. After that, Hannibal’s alpha unit will start ‘investigating’ an industrial unit known to be used frequently as storage by Fasul, and Jackson’s unit will suddenly have some ‘problems’ sourcing some of the larger weapons, requesting an urgent meeting. Together with a third team, led by Colonel Marsh, the three units plan to put pressure on the warlord from all angles and see what he does, anticipating at least one of their units to come under attack. In the aftermath, they expect to find the evidence they need, and either make arrests or take out the bad guys once and for all.

Hannibal shakes himself, focussing on the here and now. He has to resist the urge to zoom in on Face, to take a close-up of his handsome lover, instead focussing on the package the smaller of Face’s colleagues – Dinny? – hands to Jackson, the Major shaking his hand before breaking up the meeting, taking his team but leaving the boxes of weapons to the contractors. Hannibal tracks the Major’s moves until he is certain the men are clear, then quickly swings the lenses back to Face and his three colleagues. A jeep has appeared from somewhere, and the men are loading the boxes, lots of smiling and backslapping. An irrational flash of jealousy as the taller of the men – Jock? – ruffles Face’s loose curls, his boy slapping the hand away good-naturedly. Face seems to be fitting in well – there is no obvious trace of mistrust on the faces of his new colleagues, though for all Hannibal knows they could be as good at acting as his lieutenant is. 

The crackle of a radio makes him jump, but he keeps the binoculars steady and focussed on Face’s group as he flicks it to life. “All good, Jacko?”

“All good, Hannibal.” Jackson’s voice is tight and controlled, but Hannibal can hear the undercurrent of relief. “You get what we needed?”

“All recorded, and still recording,” he tells him, watching from afar as Face lifts heavy boxes easily, biceps straining beautifully beneath his tight shirt. “The package?”

“A shed-load of pills, as expected. God only knows where Fasul gets them.” Drugs, in exchange for the weapons handed over. Ecstasy, speed, various steroids – at least this batch will never hit the streets, and Hannibal has to be grateful for that. Far too many lives are ruined by drugs each year, both here in Afghanistan and elsewhere. Jackson continues, clearly knowing Hannibal’s level of concern. “Your boy’s doing fine, Hannibal. Better than fine. Looks good.”

“He say anything?” There are certain distress words, code-phrases that Face knows to use if he needs assistance. 

The over-long pause before Jackson replies makes Hannibal’s pulse speed up, but then he realises it’s just the poor radio signal. The mountains and hills in this area make communications difficult at times. “No distress words, man. He’s good. He’s got the info he needs now, and he knows what the plan is. He’s on the case.” Another pause, and Hannibal watches Face through the binoculars as his smiling boy climbs up into the jeep, now fully loaded, and drives away into the busy little town. “You better watch the CIA don’t try to steal him permanently, Hannibal!”

It’s only a joke, he knows, but just the thought of that makes Hannibal feel sick to his stomach. No way he’s letting Face go, no way that Face would want to leave the Rangers. He hopes, at least. He wouldn’t, right? “Over my dead body,” he growls into the radio, forcing a laugh as Jackson laughs back before signing off.

Still, it takes a long moment before Hannibal can relax his hands enough to lower the binoculars and turn off the recording. He’ll watch the footage back before turning it in to Morrison and Agent Smith, just to make sure it all recorded fine. Not to look at Face again, he tells himself. Although maybe he’ll zoom in a little, a freeze-frame or two perhaps, just to make sure his boy is really okay. He might have missed something, after all. Better to check.

* * *

Face knew Hannibal was watching. He could almost feel his lover’s steely blue-grey eyes tracking him during the trade with Major Jackson’s team, knew he was somewhere nearby, so close yet so far away. That thought alone makes it so hard to watch Jackson leave, to laugh and joke with Dinny and Bob as they load up the jeep, to brush off Jock’s hand when the bigger man dares to mess up his hair. He hopes Hannibal wasn’t watching that part – his lover can get fiercely jealous at times, and the big Scot was just messing with him.

At least, Face is fairly sure Jock was just messing with him. There have been some strange mixed signals sent his direction over the last couple of days, times when the bigger man had practically backed Face into a corner to talk about some detail of the arrangements, times when a heavy arm has been draped around Face’s shoulders as they patrolled together, and even the casual offer of drink back in Jock’s room. But the very next minute, the Scot would be all business again, calling Dinny over to join the conversation, or simply backing away before Face could even begin to make his excuses.

Not the first time he’s been the focus of some unwanted attention, sadly – something about his face and his body always seems to attract men going through some kind of sexual confusion, men who want to experiment with the ‘pretty boy’ – but Face isn’t at all sure that’s all this is. Almost as if Jock is testing him, in the same way Dinny had tested him by taking him out to that meeting with Fasul in the desert. Seeing what Face would do, if he would run for the hills or just shrug and go with the flow.

So for now, he does nothing, neither encouraging nor discouraging the bigger man, even as Jock drapes that heavy arm around him again in the back of the jeep as they drive back to base, the rear of the vehicle filled with illegal guns as well as beer and treats for the guys. Party time tonight, Face thinks with a smile, looking forward to seeing the look on everyone’s faces when he produces his goods. To his surprise, he’s genuinely getting along well with most of the security contractors – brainless though they are, some of them are okay guys, the type of guys you could have an easy beer and a few laughs with. The rest of them are dangerous men, men like Dinny who can blend into the background yet still control the room easily enough, or men like Jock, all muscle and no brains.

Which makes it all the more confusing why Face can’t figure out what Jock really wants. He thinks he’s got Dinny pegged, one scam artist recognising another. The man is all about the deals, organising and running things on the ground, in frequent contact with Fasul. But he’s seen Jock and Dinny talking together, late into the night, seen unreadable looks thrown his way. He’s missing something here, he knows it, some piece of the puzzle. Something, perhaps, that has to do with Dave, the man whose position Face has taken.

The information he’s been sent from Agent Smith tells him little he didn’t already know. Dinny is running from a failed marriage; no dependents, no family other than his estranged wife. Former Army, regular not special forces, dishonourably discharged for drug dealing. No surprises, really, and the same is true of Jock’s file. British Army rather than US, but much the same background. Face shreds the files once he’s memorised the information, which doesn’t take long. He’s still missing something.

Jock, it seems, takes pity on him the next night and spells it out for him. Face is the toast of the security company, the simple pleasures of real American beer and proper candy going a long way to making life in their little base easier, and most of the off-duty workers are gathering in their rec room for a film marathon, watching the DVDs Face arranged to have delivered. But Jock follows Face from the room when he slips out to the bathroom, blocking the doorway, arms folded. 

“Do you mind?” Face asks, trying for humour but feeling very exposed, tensing all his muscles in anticipation of a fight. Jock has a good four or five inches on him, and maybe seventy or eighty pounds too – Hannibal taught Face to be a good fighter, one of the very best, but against a man this size, in a confined space, he won’t stand much chance if Jock does decide to try something. 

“I don’t mind at all, pretty boy,” comes the response, and Face swallows hard, taking a deep breath. Looks like it is what he thought, after all. The obvious rather than the mysterious. But then – “Just thought you’d like a heads up. If it goes well with the deal tomorrow, then Fasul wants you tomorrow night. Just you.”

“Just me?” Face is a little confused, to say the least. “Wants me for what?”

Jock takes a couple of steps closer, close enough to run one big hand up Face’s spine, from tailbone to neck. Face shivers but holds his ground, eyes locked on the taller man’s. “He likes to play,” the Scot growls, his accent strong and his voice deep. “You like to play too, am I right?”

Face forces a laugh, casually steps out of Jock’s reach. There isn’t anywhere to go, though, and he soon hits the wall of one of the cubicles. “I like a good board game, if that’s what you’re asking,” he manages to say, brain working overtime to figure out this turn of events. “Does Fasul prefer chess or backgammon?”

“Don’t play dumb, boy. He likes to play, and you’re gonna go play. Tomorrow night.” The big man laughs in turn, a big, booming laugh that echoes in the small bathroom. “All part of the deal out here. Dinny deals with all the serious, illegal shit, and I deal with the fun stuff. There’s more than you know about – we’ve got girls arriving from everywhere, boys being sent in too, though there’s less demand for them. You wanna get in on the big deals, this is the way to do it. He’s impressed with you, so far.”

“And if I say thanks but no thanks?”

A shrug. “Dave tried that. Didn’t make much difference. Fasul isn’t a man you can say no to, not if you want to walk away in one piece.” Face watches as Jock extends one hand towards him, as his own hands clench into fists by his sides. “Don’t fight him, and it can be good. Trust me. Then maybe later, you and me can play some.” A filthy grin, and Jock suddenly withdraws his hand, vanishing surprisingly quickly for such a big man.

Face is left leaning hard against the wall, fists clenched so tightly he can practically feel his joints pop. Gradually he manages to relax, the strength returning to his legs, and he pushes himself up, walking over to the mirror and staring at his pale reflection. So that explains something of what happened to his predecessor, he thinks, the reason Dave had to be pulled out. How far did it go, he wonders, how far did Fasul take things before Dave had had enough? And how much did Agent Smith know before he sent Face in? Clearly the CIA know there is more going on than just gun-trafficking and drug-smuggling, though they chose not to share that information with him. 

Something more than just lonely men fucking in the desert for their own amusement. Sex trafficking, most likely, and the thought makes Face sick to his stomach. Young men and woman bought and sold, passed around by rough hands. Stolen from their homes and their countries in the dead of night. A far more valuable commodity than drugs or guns, and a shudder passes through him. He’s in over his head now, completely and utterly, no choice but to go forwards and see what happens. Thankfully, he’s due to check in by radio tomorrow morning, to confirm the details before they meet with Jackson for the second exchange of weapons, and he can let the Rangers know what’s going on. 

Even if Agent Smith hasn’t bothered to say anything. The CIA have their own agenda here, obviously. 

But he can handle Fasul, he’s sure. Not the first time he’s been in this position, summoned for a quick fuck or blow job – it had even happened in the army once or twice, before Hannibal found him and showed him he was worth more. He can handle Fasul without stooping to that, and hopefully he can find out more about what’s really going on here. He has to do this, knows he can do this. 

For the first time since he’d taken this job, he wishes he was safely back with his team, with Hannibal, snug and secure in his lover’s strong arms. But Hannibal is close, coordinating with General Morrison and the three teams of Rangers who will put Fasul under pressure and put an end to all this. They can get to him if things go too far. Just another few days, and Face knows this will all be over. Just a few more days, and he can go home. If he gets through tomorrow night. 

* * *

Face spends a fairly sleepless night tossing and turning in his bed, thinking back over Jock’s words, trying to pick out every possible ounce of meaning from what the big man had said. Girls arriving from everywhere, boys too. Fasul isn’t a man you can say no to. He’s impressed with you. Don’t fight him and it can be good.

It doesn’t help that it’s particularly hot and humid, the usual chill of a desert night not settling fully over the base. His little room is airless, his sheets stifling, and he feels Hannibal’s absence more acutely than he has all week. If he could close his eyes and be safely back in their tent… But he can’t. He’s here to do a job, and he’ll get it done. If there are innocent lives at stake, his role is even more important than he thought.

Comforting himself that at least he’ll have the whole day to figure something out, a day in which he’ll not only make radio contact but also go through another weapons drop before being summoned to see Fasul, he manages to doze a little as dawn approaches, but daylight sees him bleary-eyed and not at his best. Of course he runs into Jock at breakfast, who just laughs and slaps him on the back as he passes, and Face seeks out the easier company of some of the older guys, the innocent ones. Or as innocent as any of them are, out here running private security in a warzone.

As planned, he has another solo patrol that morning and, as planned, he takes his little radio with him. As planned, he uses the little code phrase the CIA taught him, the one that says he is alone and free to talk, safe and not with a gun held to his head. But rather than the familiar voice of Major Jackson, as planned, he hears the far less welcome voice of Agent Smith in reply.

“Good work the other day,” the Agent tells him, voice not giving any emotions away. Although that could be the dodgy radio signal, which is far less clear than last time. “All set for this afternoon? Jackson has the rest of the goods ready to go, same meeting place, sixteen-hundred hours.”

“This afternoon is fine, Sir, but there’s been a development.” As much as Face would rather be talking to a brother Ranger, Smith is all he has and so he quickly tells the agent what Jock told him last night. About Fasul bringing in girls and boys. About wanting to play.

“Not a priority,” Smith says quickly, cutting Face off before he can mention that Fasul wants to ‘play’ with him tonight. “It’s the drugs and the weapons we’re after, that’s your focus.”

“All due respect, Sir, but if there are innocent lives mixed up in this – ”

“Not a priority, Lieutenant.” Anger in the other man’s voice now, and Face finds himself pacing, clutching the radio so tightly his knuckles crack with the strain. “If we crack the weapons smuggling, get the evidence we need on Fasul, figure out where the drugs are coming from, then everything else goes away. Do not make this more complicated than it needs to be.”

He has to ask. Has to. “So you knew? And Dave, what, did he make things more complicated?”

“Watch your mouth, kid. You were told what you needed to know. I repeat, this is neither a new development nor a priority.”

Damn the CIA; talk about playing games. Face can’t believe what he’s hearing, but he has to hope that maybe their conversation is being recorded, or, even better, that someone is listening in. Maybe Jackson or even Hannibal. So he tries to get over as much detail as he can, though at the same time he doesn’t want to use a distress code word. Doesn’t want to be pulled out, if Smith would even consider letting that happen. He still thinks he can do this. He can do this.

Again, he goes over the detail of what Jock told him, this time ending with, “He wants me, tonight. To play.”

A pause. “That’s… unexpected,” Smith says after a long moment. “But you should do whatever is necessary not to blow your cover, or the mission.”

“Are you ordering me to – ?” Face is incredulous; is the CIA ordering him to have sex with an Afghan warlord? “Sir – ”

“Your orders haven’t changed. Stay close to Dinny, he’s apparently the man running the drugs and weapons deals.” Well, at least Smith has been convinced about that, Face thinks with an ironic smile. “Jackson will meet you as planned this afternoon, and the rest of our plans haven’t changed. One more week, Lieutenant.” Another pause, before, “You’re handling all this well. Keep doing what you’re doing and we’ll see what happens when it’s over.”

Was that a job offer? No chance in hell, Face thinks. “When this is over, I’ll be going back where I belong,” he tells him firmly. Back to the Rangers, back to his team, back to Hannibal. Back to the safety of the man he loves, who loves him in return. “Any other instructions, Sir?”

Smith has nothing else for him, and the conversation is swiftly brought to a close, Face fighting the urge to swear long and hard over the radio. They knew. The whole time, the CIA knew about Fasul’s little side-line, and they didn’t think it worth mentioning. Dave’s reasons for leaving were no clearer, sadly, and so Face has no new ideas for how to play things tonight.

Brain going round in circles, he makes his way back towards the base, continuing his patrol as planned, hoping someone else heard that whole radio conversation. Hoping someone is tearing Agent Smith a new one right now. Hoping Jackson will be given new information or instructions to pass on to him at the weapons exchange that afternoon. 

It’s going to be a long, long day, Face can just tell.

* * *

Hannibal thinks Agent Smith should be very glad that he wasn’t closer while he spoke to Face. In the time it took for the CIA man to return to the spot where Hannibal and his team were waiting, the colonel has managed to get his initial insane anger down to a simmering fury, though he still feels a strong urge to rip the man’s head from his body. That won’t help Face, though, so he can’t. Not yet.

Smith heads him off, anticipating a fight, starting to talk even before he’s fully reached Hannibal’s side. “I know you heard, and I don’t want to discuss it.”

“Tough shit.” Hannibal takes two strides forward and grabs the shorter man by the collar, hauling him up onto his tiptoes. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at, sending him in without knowing all the facts? Sex trafficking? Are you insane?”

“He knew everything he needed to know.” The agent’s voice is a little strained, and Hannibal dimly realises he’s probably choking the man. Just a fraction though, so he doesn’t loosen his grip. “The focus hasn’t changed. The mission is still the same.”

“Boss, easy…” It’s one of Hannibal’s team, a calming hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, and he sucks in a huge breath before releasing the agent suddenly, taking a savage pleasure in the way the man stumbles over his own feet and practically falls to the sand.

“The focus has changed,” Hannibal manages to spit out. “Of course it’s changed. You need to pull Face out, right this instant.”

“No, Colonel.” Smith pulls himself upright, straightening his collar and staring defiantly at Hannibal. “It is what it is, and nothing changes. Now, we need to get to Jackson’s position before the drop this afternoon.”

Nothing Hannibal can do, not really. Not until he talks to Morrison, lets him hear the recording of the radio conversation between Smith and Face. The CIA are playing games here, and Russ won’t stand for that, but right now Hannibal has no authority. He can’t charge into the base of the security firm and snatch Face back into his arms, as much as he desperately wants to. And his boy didn’t use any distress words once again, so he must still feel he is safe, despite this meeting alone with Fasul. To ‘play’.

He shakes his head as they move off, shakes the comforting, restraining hand from his shoulder. He doesn’t want comfort right now, though he has to work hard to swallow down his anger as he walks behind Smith, the agent’s step confident, even cocky, as they move through the desert. Smith knows he is the one in charge right now, the only one who knows everything about this job. The one pulling the strings. Face’s life is in his hands, effectively, and Hannibal can’t bear that thought. As much as he wants to pull the knife from his boot and bury it deeply between the agent’s shoulder blades, he can’t. He has to be patient. 

Patience isn’t his strong suit.

Face might feel safe, but Hannibal knows his boy will be worried. He knows his lover has been used and abused by men before – what memories must this be stirring for him? Can Face keep his head in the game, and keep himself safe? For that matter, can Hannibal, knowing what his lover is facing?

The second weapons drop goes as smoothly as the first, thankfully, and once again Hannibal watches the whole thing through binoculars, recording as much as he can. The whole time, he watches his lover laugh and joke with the men accompanying him, watches him shake Jackson’s hand as they part – is it his imagination or does Face hold on longer than normal? Hannibal’s heart is in his mouth the entire time, watching his boy jump back into the jeep and drive away from him, away from the safety of the Rangers, that big hulk of a man too close by his side.

He has to watch as his lover drives away, knowing what fate might be awaiting him tonight if his brilliant boy can’t come up with an excuse, or a con, or something, anything. The thought of Fasul having his way with Face, the thought of Face willingly putting himself through that… It takes everything in Hannibal’s power not to scream. He trusts Face, he loves Face dearly, and he knows, deep down, this is still a good mission, a good job that needs doing. But not like this.

Now, finally, he can drag Smith back to base, after conferring with Jackson and his team, and haul him in front of General Morrison. And Russ can put an end to this whole damn thing and pull Face out, just as the CIA pulled this Dave out before. Hannibal can hold his boy tight, and kiss him at last.

And then, maybe, Hannibal can punch that smug son of a bitch Agent Smith in the face. 

* * *

Hands all over his body, stroking over his arms, caressing his thigh. Strong fingers brushing through his hair, tickling the nape of his neck. Warm hand settling in the hollow at the base of his spine, brushing gently over the seat of his pants.

Fasul isn’t subtle, not even remotely, though he prefers to let his body do the talking, while his mouth speaks only business. Face had braced himself for this, decided on his play for the night, but still he finds it surprising just how bold the warlord is with his movements. He is clearly used to getting his own way, and not used to being denied anything.

Given the weapons on display in the tent Face has been led to – the gleaming machine guns polished to within an inch of their lives, the array of swords clearly sharp enough to kill with ease – he thinks few people would ever dare to argue with the man. No wonder the CIA want him dealt with, sooner rather than later.

Dinny and Jock had driven him here earlier, to one of Fasul’s little outposts in the desert. There are several more permanent structures in place though this elegantly draping tent is more reminiscent of something from the Arabian Nights, full of soft cushions and carefully positioned lanterns which throw dancing shadows on the walls. Face had helped unload the weapons from the exchange earlier that afternoon, under Fasul’s watchful eye, before the warlord had approached him with the offer of a drink in celebration of their new partnership. Dinny and Jock had driven away then, leaving him only with a parting smile and a call of ‘good luck!’ from the Scot.

It’s just the two of them, and Face is trying hard not to show just how uncomfortable he already is. He has to keep his head here – one wrong move or word and he knows he will die, right here. And that isn’t an option. When he dies, if it has to be sooner rather than later, he knows how he wants to go. It has to be quick, and he has to be in Hannibal’s arms. So dying tonight simply isn’t an option.

But nor is doing what Fasul obviously wants. Face has been here before, having to fend off unwanted advances, and he has some ideas, though most of it depends on how the warlord reacts. The simplest way is often the best, he reminds himself, and slips away from those grasping hands once again, wandering back towards the weapons display.

“These are pretty amazing,” he tells the other man once more. He’s already said as much earlier, but he can tell Fasul likes the praise. “You’ve got one hell of a collection, really.”

“Only a small collection with me here.” Fasul’s deeply accented English is smooth, like chocolate pouring over Face’s body, though it makes him shudder internally. “You should see my full displays, back in my home.”

A hand creeps back onto Face’s ass, and he forces himself to let it linger a moment before sidestepping once more, peering at what he thinks is a samurai sword. “Still, you’re obviously a man who knows what he likes,” he tells Fasul over his shoulder. “Do you like what you’ve seen from my contacts so far?”

“The weapons you have provided have certainly been impressive, although obviously you have not quite been able to deliver everything I requested.” To his relief, the warlord stays back, perhaps enjoying the view, and Face wishes he hadn’t bent forwards to look at the swords, knowing his pants are tight across his backside.

“There are obviously more to come. I’m pretty new to all this, still.” That could mean a multitude of things, and Face is heartened to hear a soft laugh from the other man. Possibly his play might just work.

“New? Surely not, my dear boy,” Fasul purrs, and Face stiffens as he suddenly feels the smaller man close behind him, breath tickling the back of his neck. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t played such games before.”

Finding a confused, innocent expression is difficult, but Face manages it before he half turns to the warlord. “Games, sir? Well, the drugs, yeah, y’know, I’ve had some dealings before. But this whole weapons trading thing… It’s been a learning curve, though I’m more than willing to learn.”

Fasul peers deeply into his eyes for a long moment, and Face swallows hard, tilting his head into the light and blinking, knowing the way this will make his eyes seem large and innocent. Hopefully the other man will buy it, will believe he really is just this naïve, will take some pity on him. Hopefully he won’t decide to take advantage anyway.

For now, it seems to work. Fasul reaches one hand up as if to stroke Face’s cheek, but squeezes his shoulder instead before turning them both back to the low table in the corner, where a bottle of fine wine stands uncorked beside two glasses.

“A learning curve…” Fasul muses, pouring for both of them before gesturing for Face to take a seat among the cushions. “With some things it is best not to think too hard, or to study too much. I believe the expression is, practise makes perfect, no?”

“I’ve always been a research guy myself.” Face tries not to flinch as Fasul settles close by his side. Too close, really, their legs touching from hip to ankle as they sprawl on the cushions. Good quality silk, Face can’t help noticing in the back of his mind, even as he adds, “I’m not so good jumping straight into things. Not without having things laid out clearly for me.”

A direct challenge that, and he holds Fasul’s gaze as he sips at his wine. That’s good quality too, and he takes a second sip as the tension builds between them. Are they talking about weapons dealing now, or just sex? Does Fasul believe his little act, or has he pushed it too far?

A wide smile passes over the other man’s face as he leans back, away from Face, taking a large sip from his own glass. “I can do that,” he says, voice low and dangerous, a gleam in his dark eyes. “You’ve impressed me so far, and I do like what I see. I like you, Mister Jim Carter, and I would like to become more intimately acquainted with you.”

Face lets his eyes go wide, as if only now realising what the other man is after. “Sir, I… I mean, I’ve never… I’m not…” he stutters, trying not to lay it on too thick. “I’m flattered, but I haven’t ever…”

“Easy, boy,” the warlord suddenly laughs. “More of an innocent than I realised, perhaps. A virgin. I hadn’t even considered… A shame to rush something, just for the sake of rushing. Tonight, we drink, we talk. We wait.”

Face lets his shoulders drop as if in relief, hanging his head for a second, though it really isn’t difficult to pretend to be relieved right now. Not tonight, then. A bullet dodged, for now. “Drink, and talk,” he repeats softly. “I can do that. And, perhaps…” He reaches for the bag he brought with him, wishing there was a way to grab it without showing Fasul his ass again. “I forgot I brought these for you. Thought you might like them.”

He hands Fasul the slim box he’d brought, suspecting the other man might appreciate the quality and the gesture. Sure enough, the moment Fasul slides open the lid, another wide smile splits his face. “Where did you get these?” he wonders aloud, lifting out one of the cigars and running it beneath his nose, inhaling deeply. “A man of many talents, clearly.”

Face says nothing, ducking his head modestly as Fasul lights up and the tent immediately begins to smell of the finest Cuban tobacco known to man. He shakes his head when the man offers him one for himself – he doesn’t smoke, never has, but this smells like home. These are Hannibal’s favourites, the ones he saves for a special occasion, rather than the ones he chews his way through on a daily basis. He’ll have to put in a new order when he gets back to his team; can’t have his lover running out.

Letting the comforting smell surround him and fill him, letting thoughts of Hannibal give him strength though not to the point of distraction, Face is better prepared when Fasul leans closer once more. “Tonight, you have earned yourself some time,” the warlord whispers into his ear. “Keep doing what you have been doing, and I am sure we can come to some kind of… happy arrangement. If not, well…”

The hand that gropes at Face’s groin, squeezing just hard enough to cause him to wince, isn’t at all subtle. He gulps, nodding, as Fasul laughs long and hard.

* * *

Hannibal isn’t subtle, not even remotely, and he doesn’t see why the hell he should be. He spends a long evening fretting, then a longer sleepless night pacing. In his tent at first, then around the camp as his frustration grows, ignoring the stares of the other soldiers still around, either on guard duty or just as sleepless as him. What kind of hell is Face going through at this very moment? Has his boy been able to find a way to avoid Fasul altogether, to dodge out of the meeting? Or has he at least been able to charm the warlord, to talk his way out of danger?

Or does that scumbag have his hands all over Hannibal’s precious boy?

Face has been hurt before, he knows. That beautiful boy has been abused in his time, though he has never revealed any details to Hannibal. There have been nightmares, certainly, cries torn from sleeping lips, pleas for mercy. Hannibal swore to protect him, though he always knew this time might come. That Face might be at risk, and Hannibal might be far away.

He had hauled Agent Smith in front of the General the very moment they stepped back inside the camp, one hand wrapped into the agent’s collar, and started repeating everything that happened earlier in the day. Jackson was there too, backing up Hannibal every step of the way, and Morrison listened with an ever-deepening frown as together they explained. As the recording of that radio conversation was played, the agent’s own words spelling things out.

Smith had said nothing, though he shrugged away from Hannibal’s grasp and leaned casually against the wall of the tent, arms folded across his chest. On anyone else it would have looked defensive, but somehow the agent made it look confident. Hannibal had really, really wanted to punch him. He still does, he thinks, as he stalks around the camp, chewing on an unlit cigar. He really, really wants to punch him, at the very least.

It had been clear the General was angry, furious in fact, and he had shouted long and hard at the CIA man, demanding explanations, reasons, details. Just what else hadn’t the Rangers been told? What other dangers was Lieutenant Peck facing, out there on his own?

Smith had calmly pointed out again that the mission hadn’t changed. Face hadn’t used distress words – and Hannibal really wanted to know what the hell his boy had been thinking, though he knows Face is both stubborn and determined – so they simply had to continue as before. Nothing had changed, the agent said over and over again. Nothing had changed.

Hannibal hadn’t been subtle, not even remotely, as he spelled out his desire to end to the mission right now and pull Face out. There was too much uncertainty, too much risk to his Lieutenant. This wasn’t what Face had agreed to, distress words or not.

But Morrison had seen it differently, and Hannibal had listened in disbelief as his old friend lectured the CIA agent about not keeping any more secrets. “Hannibal,” Russ had said, when Jackson and Smith had left the tent. “I know. And it’s shit. But Face can handle this. And if there really is some sort of illegal sex trafficking ring here, on top of the drugs and the weapons, we have to stop it. This is what we do. This is what Face does, and what you do.”

“But Russ, my boy…” Hannibal had pleaded, frustrated and worried.

“I know.” 

And Hannibal thinks Morrison does know about his relationship with Face, maybe not everything, maybe not for sure, but certainly enough. It was that alone that made him step away, go back to his planning. If things are still happening as before, that meant tomorrow Hannibal would be taking his team to start investigating that industrial unit of Fasul’s, a group of warehouses and smaller buildings. There was surveillance to be started, and even some undercover work of their own, in parallel to Face’s more direct involvement. 

He had thrown himself into plans that had already been perfected, plans he had already been over with his team a dozen times. Trying not to think about his boy, out there, alone. 

But now, as he spends the whole night awake, pacing, unable to sit for even a minute, all he can think about is his boy. And Fasul. Together. Alone. And he tries not to scream as images fill his mind, living nightmares of his own. 

* * *

After so much tension and drama, Face finds the next few days are worryingly quiet. No summons back to Fasul’s tent in the desert. No new ‘shopping lists’ passed his way. Nothing but the mindless, everyday work of the private security firm, patrolling with groups of beefy ex-military men, in and out of the nearby towns, liaising with the locals. He keeps his head down, getting on with his supposed job, almost unable to believe his luck.

Knowing it isn’t really luck at all.

Something is going on. There are rumours running through the security firm, a frown on Dinny’s usually calm face. Something involving some of Fasul’s warehouses, something that means Jock has been gone for several days now. Was already gone before Face arrived back at his base the day after his close-call with Fasul. 

Face knows exactly what’s going on, of course. The Rangers have started their campaign, started their surveillance of Fasul’s wider empire. The warehouses are a central part of this surveillance, and he knows exactly which team is causing all the fuss. It’s his team. Hannibal’s team.

No contact planned with Jackson’s team for another few days unless absolutely urgent, though he knows they are close by, and all Face can do now is wait and see what happens. He stays close to Dinny, ready in case the other man wants to talk, watching as the other man slips constantly away to take calls on his mobile. Fasul, he thinks, wanting to know what the hell is going on. He practises his best ‘innocent-yet-concerned’ look, just in case. And waits.

* * *

The first couple of days of surveillance are straightforward enough, and very revealing. There are obviously more than just weapons being stored and traded at these industrial units, and Hannibal’s team very rapidly start building a clearer picture of just what is happening in this little corner of Fasul’s empire. They don’t like what they see. 

There are people coming and going at all times of the day and night, vans and cars and other vehicles all arriving and driving straight into the largest of the warehouses to unload their mysterious cargo. The team even manage to get a man inside for a short time, a little undercover work of their own, though nothing compared with what Face has been undertaking, and the undercover work reveals what they already suspected – there are people being trafficked through these buildings, young men and women bought and sold by rich men in expensive vehicles.

Late on the second night, something happens. Shouting and screaming from one of the smaller warehouses, the sounds echoing across the desert to where Hannibal and his team are watching from the safety of a large sand dune, and they rapidly get night-vision binoculars trained on the unit, trying to see exactly what it is, trying to see if this is something they need to get involved with or if they should just let events unfold. 

From the warehouse, a group of women and children suddenly emerge, all wearing little more than rags, all clearly upset, crying. Hannibal can count ten of them in total, and they scatter in all directions, some running for the perimeter fence, some just looking lost, the younger children especially running in circles, not knowing what to do. Hannibal’s heart is screaming at him to go in, to usher them all to safety – god only knows what traumas these people have seen, what hell they have been through at Fasul’s hands – but there is no time, he knows that, and he can only grit his teeth as he waits for the inevitable.

It doesn’t take long.

In seconds, the escapees are being chased by burly men who emerge from every other building, gunfire echoing loudly as they shoot the women down in their tracks, the smaller bodies of the children being thrown backwards by the force of the bullets. The screaming fades to low moans that stop far sooner than Hannibal would expect, his heart clenching tightly at the meaningless massacre. He watches the men laugh as they stride amongst the fallen bodies, one or two kicking out at the twitching figures as they pass by, longs to pull his own gun and return fire. He can hear his men murmuring angrily by his side, knows they will be longing for revenge too. Knows they can’t. Knows they have to watch and record, ready to report back. Hates this part of his job more than anything.

He really does have to restrain himself when he recognises the man who takes charge, recognises that big burly figure he’s seen with Face twice now. Waving what appears to be a machine gun around, Jock directs the men to drag the bodies back inside that warehouse, one or two still with twitching limbs even as blood stains the concrete floor even darker than it was already stained, and Hannibal’s hand tightens on the trigger of the rifle by his side. So easy. It would be so easy, to take out this man here and now, this man who has been giving his boy so many problems. This man who has just casually witnessed the murder of so many innocents. This man who is clearly more involved in this sex-trafficking or people smuggling, rather than the drugs and weapons Agent Smith still insists are the focus of this operation.

Instead, he forces himself to murmur words of calm to his men, keeping his finger pressed firmly down over the button that will make sure everything that happens here is recorded. They can’t change what has happened here tonight, but they can make sure, when the time comes, Fasul and his men will pay for it. 

Very quickly, the perimeter guards around the industrial unit are quadrupled, security patrols setting out from the warehouses towards the Rangers’ location, and it is with a heavy heart and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that Hannibal gives the order to withdraw. No sense in fighting here and now, nothing to be gained yet, except revenge. They have to fall back for now, as much as they all hate the thought of retreating. It isn’t in them to retreat, not as Rangers, not as men either, but right now Hannibal knows there is no choice. The time for revenge will come. Soon.

Right now, he has to get back in contact with Major Jackson’s unit and with Colonel Marsh, who is leading the third Ranger team, the team focussing on how Fasul gets his drugs into the country. All three teams have to coordinate their work, in order to put the warlord under just enough pressure to make him act. Hannibal wonders angrily how much Fasul knows about what happened here this night, if Jock will be reporting back even now, as the Rangers crawl backwards away from the dunes, escaping into the cool desert night. He counts down the distance until they are far enough away to risk radio contact with Jackson, knowing that what they have witnessed here tonight changes everything yet again.

* * *

Something is going on, Face knows that. Something big has happened, is still happening, but he has no way to know what it is. Still no word from Fasul, still no sign of Jock, but Dinny is clearly on edge. Phone calls every five minutes, answered in a tight, terse voice. No pretence made of even trying to do the security job he is paid for, and the other men seem to know to leave well enough alone. No one asks Dinny to do anything, and Face wonders just how much they all actually know about Fasul and the deals being struck in the desert, the drugs and the weapons and the innocent human lives being wrecked – just how innocent are any of the men who work out here in this hell-hole in the middle of Afghanistan?

He stays close to Dinny, or as close as the other man will let him. Dinny doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t seem to want him near, not really, though Face pretends to be oblivious and stands his ground, trying to be useful. He takes the man a bottle of water when he’s been stood outside for nearly an hour, phone pressed to his ear. Takes him a sandwich when he misses dinner, holed up in his room. But it seems any pretence of friendship has been dropped, Dinny taking his offerings with a nod and a grunt before turning his back or closing the door in his face.

So he backs off, nothing else he can do. He isn’t sure if Dinny’s problem is with him or with the whole situation, though he’s fairly sure he hasn’t been discovered. As one of the new guys, though, he wouldn’t necessarily be taken into Dinny’s confidence if something has gone wrong – that’s just common sense, he knows that, whether or not they suspect him of working for the other side. It doesn’t stop him worrying, though, and he finds he has to work twice as hard to keep his mask up, keep playing the role of Jim Carter. 

He still hasn’t had radio contact with either Agent Smith or Major Jackson, though he has a final check-in tomorrow before the Rangers’ final assault is due to begin. It’s nearly the end of the second week, nearly time to put everything into place, everything they’ve worked for. He’s played his part as well as he could, making deals and getting involved, seeing for himself what goes on in this little security firm. He’s passed on what information he can, noted what evidence he’s been able to, hopes he’s been able to point the Rangers in the right direction. Hannibal’s team, his team, will be targeting that industrial unit, the unit where he thinks Jock is. Another team, Colonel Marsh’s he suspects, will be about to attack the supply line for Fasul’s drug empire, and Jackson will be about to cause some drama on the weapons front before hitting the security company’s base.

Face is ready. More than ready, in fact – he wants out now, he want to go back to his unit and his man. These two weeks have been an interesting challenge, one he’s relished certainly, but enough is enough now. The tension of these last few days spent on edge, just waiting, has started to get to him. He wants it to be over. Knows he just has to keep his head down another day or two. Knows what he has to do, when it all finally starts. Knows his escape route, knows how to get to Jackson’s team and then away from here, back to Hannibal.

A little longer, he just has to keep his head down a little longer. One final solo patrol, one final time he has to smuggle his little radio away from their base. One final time he has to speak those strange little code words, hoping this will be the final go-ahead he’s been waiting for. 

“Charlie two bravo three niner,” he says once again into the radio, but the only response is the crackle of static. “Charlie two bravo three niner,” he repeats, raising his voice slightly and feeling his pulse kick up just a fraction. “Anyone out there?”

More static, the radio cutting in and out, and Face shakes it just a little in his hand. Can’t be the batteries, could possibly be his position, and he looks around at the sand dunes and the mountains in the distance. Should be fine, he thinks, trying not to panic. Checks his watch – he’s right on time, but maybe the others are running late. He doesn’t know if it will be Jackson or the mysterious Agent Smith answering his check-in, but maybe something has happened. Something that means he’s all on his own now, and at that thought the panic does start to kick in, the desert suddenly seeming large and lonely, and he swallows hard, determined not to give in to it.

He’ll give it another minute before trying again, he decides, giving in to the urge to pace round in circles, needing to be moving rather than just baking in the desert heat. Sips some water, adjusts the scarf around his neck. Takes his sunglasses off, then puts them back on again. Waits until the count in his head hits sixty seconds before raising the radio back to his mouth.

“Charlie. Two. Bravo. Three. Niner,” he states, enunciating each word as clearly as he can, and this time, finally, there is a response. And his heart nearly beats clean out of his chest when he recognises the voice at the other end of the radio.

* * *

“Sierra echo three four alpha. Sorry to keep you waiting, kid.” Not what Hannibal wants to be saying to his lover, the last thing in fact that he wants to be saying to his precious boy after not hearing his voice for nearly two whole weeks. But he’s huddled in a small tent with Major ‘Jacko’ Jackson and Colonel ‘Swampy’ Marsh, Agent Smith listening in over the radio, and so he has to swallow down the words he longs to say. 

Are you safe? Did Fasul put his hands on you? Do you know just how much I love you? Promise me you’ll never leave me again, not like this? 

A crackle of static from the radio, before Face’s response. “Hannibal…” his boy breathes, a sigh audible even over the static-filled airwaves, before he clearly realises what the colonel already knows. They aren’t alone, and their every word is being recorded. “Colonel, sir, good to hear your voice.”

“You too, Lieutenant. All in one piece?” As close as he can come to asking those burning questions, and he holds his breath until the answer comes.

“Yes, sir.” Face sounds strong, healthy, though it’s obviously difficult to tell over the radio. “More than ready to get this done, though, and come home.”

Jackson leans closer to the radio, catching Hannibal’s eye as if asking for his permission to speak. “You might have to hang in there a little longer, son,” the major says, after Hannibal nods. Jackson has been Face’s main point of contact; he should be the one to tell him about the change in plans. If Hannibal had to tell his boy, he doesn’t know if he could get the words out. He still wants to charge straight in and pull Face out, but after seeing what he’s seen, he knows this all needs to be done right. He can’t haul Face into the safety of his arms just yet.

“How much longer, Major?” Face asks after another pause.

“A week, tops. There’ve been some complications on our end, and we need a little more time to get things done right.” Understatement, Hannibal thinks with a grim smile, as Jackson quickly fills Face in on the events at the industrial unit two nights ago. The three Ranger commanders have discussed the issues they face, and they aren’t happy to go ahead with Smith’s original plans, not yet. More observation, more recording, more evidence – the sex trafficking is a big deal, despite the CIA man’s denial of its importance, and Morrison has finally overruled the agent and ordered them to take as much time as they need to get it right. 

“Only if you think you’re safe, Lieutenant,” Hannibal speaks up when Jackson finally finishes his explanation. “If you think your position is in jeopardy, we can pull you out now.” A huge part of him, the part of him that is Face’s lover rather than Lieutenant Peck’s CO, wants the younger man on the far end of the radio to say he’s in danger, to ask to be saved. But he already knows what Face will say, knows his boy too well, loves his boy because of how brave and determined he is.

And sure enough, even as Agent Smith starts hissing in his ear over the radio ear-piece, Face is back on the line, his voice firm with no trace of hesitation or doubt. “I’m safe, Sir. I’m sure of it. All their focus has been out at those warehouses, and I’ve been pretty much ignored. If they suspect me, they haven’t let on. I’m safe.”

“Face, listen – ”

“Colonel, Sir,” Face cuts him off, before he can say something they both might regret. “It’s only one more week, right? If anything changes, I’ll let you know. Promise.”

Jackson and Marsh are both watching him closely, and Hannibal closes his eyes briefly before nodding, even though he knows his lover can’t see that. Jackson takes the radio again, swiftly arranging new check-in times for Face, leaving Hannibal with nothing to do but listen. Face is clearly confident he can stay safe, though Hannibal longs to ask him more, especially about his meetings with Fasul, but their focus now is on whatever is happening at those warehouses, as well as the drugs and the weapons and the Afghan warlord controlling everything. This mission has always been bigger than just the two of them, and Face is correct. It’s only one more week, right?

* * *

It’s only one more week. Only one more week. Face keeps repeating that to himself over and over again as the days pass slowly, like a mantra in his head, all the while making sure he keeps his masks up. Keeps smiling and joking with the guys in his security team, keeps a casual and carefree façade. Keeps his head down as much as he can.

For all his confident words to Hannibal on the radio, he is starting to feel he really does want to be pulled out. Right the fuck now, thank you very much. It’s nothing specific, in fact it’s all still very quiet and calm, which is almost worse than if everything was going straight to hell. Jock is still absent from their base, Dinny is still mostly locked in his own world with his mobile glued to his ear, and Fasul is still silent.

How long can his luck really last, though? For all his confident words to Hannibal, Face knows that the longer this whole operation goes on, the more chance there is that he will be exposed. Too many coincidences, surely: Ranger teams suddenly nosing around the warlord’s territory only two weeks after he’s arrived, a supposedly disillusioned former-Ranger. The longer it goes on, the more likely it becomes that someone will put two and two together. But if he pulls out now, then all their work has been for nothing, and Fasul will get away with everything for even longer.

Rumours are flying around the security company, and the atmosphere is tense, to say the least. As well as the ongoing problems at the warehouses – Hannibal’s team are still keeping up the pressure, Face knows – there have been rumours of other problems from those in the know, problems with Fasul’s drug business, little whispers of problems with his normal suppliers, and again Face knows that’s one of the other Ranger teams. 

It’s all going as planned, really, or at least it would be if it wasn’t for the whole people-smuggling element. This part of the operation should have been just a couple of days sustained pressure before everything blew up and blew over, before Face could get the hell out of here and back to Hannibal’s side. Instead, the need for longer observation has led to this drawn out week of waiting where things are slowly reaching a boiling point. And Face is sitting right in the middle of it all. Just waiting.

At least he got to hear Hannibal’s voice. As much as he’s tried so hard not to think about his distant lover, the man who is colonel and friend and soulmate all rolled into one handsome package, as much as Face has tried desperately to concentrate on the job he has to do, he’s missed Hannibal more than he thought possible. Hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed him until he heard that strong, deep voice coming clearly through the static on the radio. 

His legs had already been shaky with the sudden yet irrational fear that he’d been abandoned by all his teams, but as soon as he’d heard his colonel… Well he’d dropped to the ground in a heap, sitting in the sand like a lost boy while they spoke, so very glad no one was around to see him.

Despite the grim news Hannibal had brought, despite Jackson’s planning for more check-ins and ways to keep in contact, despite it all Face had been smiling. The clear concern in Hannibal’s voice – no more than any other over-protective CO would have, of course, except for the fact that Face could tell the difference in tone. Hannibal has his back, in fact three whole teams of Rangers have his back, and Face can hang in there for one more week.

He can. Really.

His luck lasts for four days, and he supposes he should be grateful he got away with things for that long. As Dinny stands in the doorway to Face’s little bedroom on base, that ever-present mobile phone held tight in his hand, Face pulls himself straighter where he is sitting reading on his bunk, carefully fixing a curious, concerned look on his face.

“You okay, man?” he asks, all his senses on edge though he fights to keep his body relaxed. Dinny is shorter than him, true, but his body is just as strong and muscled as Face’s own. Still, this isn’t like the time Jock cornered him in the bathrooms – Face knows he could fight his way out of this if he needs to, but something tells him to wait. He still doesn’t know what this is.

“No, man. Everything’s not okay.” Dinny’s face is expressionless, his dark eyes watching Face closely. “You know we’ve got some… difficulties.”

He nods slowly. “Heard some rumours,” he says, evasively. “Saw you were busy.” Dinny’s been avoiding him for days, and Face still can’t tell which way this will go. The other man is almost as good a conman as Face is, hiding carefully behind that blank mask.

“Fasul wants us.” 

Okay, Face thinks, so it’s going to go like that. “Sure,” he says slowly, dragging the word out as long as he can. “Tonight?”

“No. Right now.”

Not ideal, but Face has had enough time to consider this as a possibility. He has his little radio within easy reach, buried at the bottom of an old kitbag in the depths of his locker; he’s not supposed to use it here, but in case of emergencies… “Okay.” He nods, bouncing to his feet, stretching his arms out. “Meet you out front in five? Just gotta change my shirt – ”

“I’ll wait.” And that’s exactly what Dinny does, never moving from the doorway, watching as Face goes through the motions of getting his things together before changing his shirt, those dark eyes thankfully cool and disinterested on his exposed torso and tattoo, not leering like he thinks Jock would have done. Still, it’s uncomfortable, any man other than Hannibal watching him change would be a little uncomfortable, especially in a tight space like this, but Face takes the opportunity to flex all his muscles for a long second as he straightens up. No harm in showing Dinny exactly who he is dealing with. 

No time to pull out the radio, though.

And Face doubts Fasul will be interested in his flexing muscles. Or maybe he’ll be entirely too interested.

* * *

Once again, Hannibal is reduced to watching through his binoculars. Tracking the comings and goings at this industrial unit full of warehouses, rather than fighting as he is trained to do. As every instinct in his body tells him to do. The concrete floor where those women were killed only a few nights earlier has clearly been sandblasted at some point, the stains long gone, though in Hannibal’s head he can still hear those screams. Echoing in the desert.

His team tried to get in last night, tried to get through the security, but Fasul has the place virtually on lockdown and, as much as Hannibal hated to withdraw yet again, he was forced to back his men away. They could have forced things, they have more than enough evidence of the people being held against their will, the weapons and drugs changing hands here, and his team are desperate to put a stop to Fasul’s activities, but they can’t. They have to coordinate with the other two teams, have to wait for Agent Smith’s final go-ahead. Can’t do anything to risk the bigger picture.

Hannibal hates the bigger picture.

More ‘shipments’ in and out, big trucks and containers, all carefully concealed within warehouses before Hannibal and his team can really see what they hold. More visitors in smart cars and shiny new jeeps, the type of jeeps clearly never used for serious off-road driving.

They know exactly what’s going on, have more than enough evidence, even if they can’t see all of it now because of security. Shipments of women, shipments of young men. Children, sometimes, making them all feel sick to their boots. 

They want it stopped. Almost more than they want the drugs and the weapons stopped, Hannibal and his boys want to put an end to this. As soon as Marshall gets the last of his evidence, as soon as Jackson gets to check-in with Face one last time, this ends. 

So he watches, waits. And this evening, it looks like something big is going down, bigger than last night when three clearly terrified women with their hands tied tightly were thrown into the back of a shiny new jeep and driven away. Bigger than two days ago when two burly Afghans carried the limp and naked body of a young man with blonde hair, carried him out from one of the smaller warehouses before locking him in the trunk of a car. 

Whatever is happening tonight starts with the arrival of a virtual caravan of jeeps, driving straight out of the desert, rather than approaching from the nearby towns and villages. Instead of the endless security checks the Rangers have witnessed so often, instead of guards with machine guns crawling all over the vehicles for hours at a time, they are waved straight through, stopping only outside the largest warehouse, parking in a line right on that sandblasted concrete.

Immediately, groups of men in long robes start climbing down, all clearly alert with eyes looking everywhere, weapons drawn and held ready, but it is one figure alone that draws Hannibal’s eye, and he draws a sharp breath.

He clearly isn’t the only one who recognises the man, either, as the soldier lying on his belly next to Hannibal suddenly hisses, “Shit, that’s him. That’s Fasul.”

They’ve only seen him in photographs and on surveillance footage so far, though Colonel Marshall’s team have witnessed the warlord meeting directly with the drug smugglers they’ve been watching. Fasul clearly prefers to direct his dirty business from behind the scenes normally, but something has brought him out here, in the dusky desert evening.

Hannibal turns to the man behind him, a young corporal who is in charge of the comms equipment. “Get back to Beta point and call in,” he orders the kid quickly. They can’t radio from here, they need to get to a safe distance first. “Tell Smith Fasul is here.”

Before the soldier can take off, though, the man by Hannibal’s side grabs at his elbow. “Wait – there’s another vehicle, Sir.”

Binoculars swinging back to the gate, away from the warlord, Hannibal watches as another jeep enters the industrial unit. This one has clearly seen better days, heavily coated in a thick layer of desert sand and dirt. It too drives straight through all the security checkpoints, and Fasul waits with hands on hips until it slows to a stop in front of the warehouse.

And Hannibal’s heart practically stops dead in his chest when his precious boy steps down from the jeep, stretching his arms out briefly as Dinny slides quickly down beside him. Face is wearing dark glasses even though the sun has practically set now, a loose grey scarf wrapped once around his neck, and he holds out a hand to Fasul, the warlord using that hand to pull Hannibal’s lover into a quick embrace.

“Colonel, is that Lieutenant Peck?” 

“Get on the radio, Corporal. Right the hell now.” Movement behind him tells Hannibal the kid has already gone, but he only has eyes for Face. His boy is smiling, yes, but he’s looking carefully around too, clearly alert and on edge even as he lets Fasul wrap one arm around his shoulders. Hannibal wants nothing more than to rip the warlord into pieces for even touching his boy, or at the very least to sink a bullet straight between his eyes, and his hand automatically finds his sidearm, fingering the trigger as his chest tightens.

Dinny has moved up close on Face’s other side now, and between him and Fasul they quickly walk Hannibal’s boy into the warehouse, all of them still smiling and clearly talking. The other men follow quickly, falling into step behind their leader, guns still up and ready, and within moments the large metal doors of the warehouse are sliding closed.

“Sir?” The soldier by his side has dropped his binoculars to the sand, and Hannibal can feel the younger man’s questioning gaze burning into his cheek. “Colonel, what do we do? Sir?”

But he can’t rip his eyes away from those closed doors. Face is in there. And that thought practically short-circuits his entire brain for a long minute, until he shakes himself back into action.

“Okay.” His voice sounds distant, but he’s focussed. “This is what we do.”

* * *

Not good, not good, not good… Face knows he has to keep focussed, now more than ever, but he’s being escorted into a large warehouse flanked by Fasul, Dinny and around fifteen other big men, all with guns. And he is virtually unarmed, one small knife concealed in his boot and nothing else but his wits to rely on. This is seriously not good.

“We’ve had some problems out here,” Dinny is saying to him, and Face carefully keeps his body language as calm as he can, even as his eyes are searching quickly around the interior of the warehouse. “Problems in a few places, actually, but here in particular.”

“What kind of problems, man?” he asks, figuring it’s more than okay for him to look concerned at that statement. Just as well, as the loud clanging of the metal doors sliding shut behind him sends a shiver of fear up his spine. If they’ve figured him out, this is almost certainly the end for him. And Hannibal’s comforting arms are nowhere near. He’ll die alone. Slowly, most likely. Painfully.

To his surprise, it’s Fasul who answers, keeping that arm locked tight around Face’s shoulders and keeping him moving further into the warehouse. Inside, it’s almost unrecognisable as a warehouse, full of huge metal storage containers piled two or three high, ladders leaning up against those metal towers. Some doors on the ground floor are thrown open to reveal boxes of goods, other are set up almost like offices, with chairs and tables. A computer in one, complete with a desk and fax machine, seeming completely out of place in the middle of the Afghan desert. 

“Problems of the military kind,” the warlord tells him, voice ringing clearly in the narrow corridors formed by the containers. “Problems of the Ranger kind, to be more specific.”

“Rangers, sir?” Face tries to look horrified, knows he doesn’t quite manage to pull it off. Swallows hard. “Look, sir, I don’t – ”

“Don’t play dumb with me, boy.” The hand holding his shoulder squeezes almost painfully tight, revealing the strength concealed within Fasul’s smaller body. Face doesn’t need the physical reminder of the danger he is in, nor does he need the sound of the safety being snapped off on a dozen different weapons. “Your new contacts, perhaps, leading them straight to me? Or, perhaps, it could be the man who got away – your predecessor, Dave. Did you ever find out what happened to him?”

Face just shakes his head as Fasul steers him round a corner and brings him to a stop. Jock is standing in front of one of the larger containers, the doors padlocked but a key held clearly in the Scot’s big hand. “Dave didn’t have the stomach for this,” Jock announces with an evil grin, letting his eyes rake up and down Face in a move so unsubtle Face can’t help rolling his eyes. “Dave didn’t want to play with us anymore.”

The hand on Face’s shoulder moves to the back of his neck, squeezing tight, while Dinny moves even closer on his other side, wrapping a hand around his upper arm and keeping him still as Jock turns to open the container. But Face can’t just stand there, not when he still might have a chance to talk himself out of whatever this is. No one has accused him outright of anything. Not yet, at least. “Look, Sir, whatever you think I’ve done… If it’s my contacts you’re worried about then I can – ”

“Silence!” Not Fasul, nor Dinny – the order is barked from behind him, and accompanied by the hard jab of a gun into his kidneys. Face takes the hint, to shut up and listen. No talking, not now at least.

“This is what this is all about,” Fasul tells him, voice turning calm and conversational. Dangerous, really, Face thinks as his heart races in his chest. “You think of it as three separate areas, perhaps, you think of the guns and the drugs and the girls. But you do not see how the three are connected, how everything is connected.”

* * *

It isn’t Face in there. It’s just another soldier, just another undercover Ranger doing his job. It isn’t Face.

If Hannibal lets himself think of Face, he knows he’ll lose all sense of duty and just run straight on into that warehouse, a blazing machine gun in each hand, desperate to save his lover. 

If Hannibal lets himself think of Face, he won’t be able to stay calm and keep control, the way all his men are expecting him to. His entire team, Jackson’s team, and Marsh’s team too, on the radio. Marsh, awaiting the go-ahead to attack Fasul’s home compound. Jackson, ready and waiting to go for the security company’s base. And Hannibal’s boys, in position around the warehouses, spread as thinly as they dare.

If Hannibal lets himself think of Face, the bigger picture will be lost. Fasul will be murdered in cold blood, at his hands, but other innocent lives will be lost too. Face wouldn’t want that; Hannibal doesn’t want that, not really, though the Alpha male in him is roaring at him to protect his lover at all costs. 

So it isn’t Face in there. It’s Lieutenant Peck, who has willingly chosen this undercover job, knowing the risks. Knowing the dangers if he is discovered. It’s Lieutenant Peck, who chose to stay rather than let himself be pulled out, even when they discovered the CIA had been withholding important information. It’s Lieutenant Peck in that warehouse, not Face, not Temp, so Hannibal must be Colonel Smith instead of John. He has to be. 

* * *

Jock finally gets the heavy doors open, the sound of the metal scraping across the concrete floor enough to make Face wince. As much as he doesn’t want to look at the contents of the container, his eyes automatically blink into the gloom until he can make out a group of women, all of them bound at the wrists and ankles, gagged, all of them clad only in filthy underwear, hair bedraggled, tears staining their cheeks, and all as scrawny as hell. “Hello, my pretties,” Jock leers as he steps towards them. “Missed me?” Not one of them even flinches, their eyes dead, and Face dreads to think just what these poor creatures have been through to end up here.

“Leave them,” Fasul commands, and Jock immediately steps back, several of the other men moving in to haul the women to their feet. “Everything is connected,” he tells Face again. “These women are gifted to me in payment for drugs or weapons, depending on the client. Then, my richer friends choose which they prefer – some, of course, prefer men or children, and I cater for all tastes. I do not judge. They pay me in money, usually, or drugs sometimes. And I can of course buy more drugs or weapons, in order to trade for more women. Everything is connected.”

“And what do you get out of it all?” Face dares to ask, tensing in anticipation of another blow to his lower back. But the blow never falls. “Money and status, I presume? I can understand that.” He can’t, not even in his wildest dreams or nightmares can he imagine bargaining with innocent lives like this, but Fasul doesn’t have to know that.

“All of that and more.” Fasul steps around in front of him, dropping his hand away from Face’s neck, though Dinny’s hand remains tight around his arm. “Some of my women are not in so good condition, some like these women here. Sometimes, I could do better than what I have. Sometimes I have to let some of them go, make room for… fresh stock. But we have sport first, yes? Dave could not stand the thought of this, and he didn’t want to play,” the warlord whispers, stepping closer, one hand brushing the crotch of Face’s loose cargo pants deliberately. “Do you want to play with us, Mister Jim Carter?”

“Sir, I – ”

“Ah, but you like things to be spelled out clearly for you, yes?” Of course Fasul would remember that from their last meeting. “Let us make it all clear then.” A nod over his shoulder to where Jock stands, supervising the women as they are dragged out and made to line up along the edge of the container, shivering and clearly weak. 

“Dave didn’t want to play, wanted to just stick to the drugs and the weapons. Far too interested in both, in my opinion.” Jock’s voice is light, his tone humorous almost, and Face shivers once more in Dinny’s grasp. “Something not quite right about that man. So I took him anyway, just for fun.”

A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach now, a nausea creeping over him as Fasul steps even closer into his personal space, grasping at Face’s groin with a grip that borders on painful, and is certainly uncomfortable. “I took him, too,” the warlord hisses, a flash of what looks like insanity in his dark eyes as his hand twists a little, and Face gasps despite himself. “I took him all night, I took him over and over again, until he was screaming and begging me for mercy. Will you beg, my pretty boy?”

* * *

Colonel Smith has given up talking to Agent Smith. The message came back that they were to wait, to do nothing, to observe and record as they have been doing for days, but Colonel Smith will not leave Lieutenant Peck in danger. The three Ranger teams have all the evidence the CIA asked for, and now they have three of the main players in one location, the perfect chance to take them out at once. Fasul and Dinny just arrived. Jock, lurking around for days. All in that building right now with Lieutenant Peck. 

The waiting is over, at long last, and the Colonel glances right then left at the men by his side. His men, all ready and willing to get this done, to get Lieutenant Peck out of there and put an end to the warlord’s reign of terror and violence in this harsh desert. His radio buzzes three times, then a pause, then twice more. That’s Jackson, in position. Another minute passes, then the same code once again – Marsh is ready. Colonel Smith allows another precious minute to pass by, not thinking of what may or may not be happening in that large warehouse they have made their primary target, not thinking about the fact they are going into this largely without a plan, improvising at best, almost certainly outgunned and outnumbered. 

Then he sends his own signal, nods once to the men on each side of him, and it starts.

* * *

Before Face can even try to conjure an answer, Jock picks up the thread of the narrative once more. “Dumped him back at base after all that, told him to keep his damn mouth shut, but the man vanished.” A snap of his fingers, the sound making one or two of the women flinch where the sight of machine guns hadn’t. “Just like that, overnight. Gone. So you see what we’re thinking?”

“You think he set you up,” Face manages to grind out, desperate to take a step back from those tight fingers, fingers holding what belongs to Hannibal and Hannibal alone. Thoughts of his lover ground him once again, the hope that he might be outside even now, might have seen Face being escorted here. Might be coming for him. He uses that hope, lets it give him the strength to withstand that groping hand and force a more confident edge to his voice. “You think he somehow set the Rangers onto what you’ve been doing here.”

“What we have been doing here.” Fasul laughs a little, hot breath foul as he leans even closer to Face. “You are a part of this too; you may not know everything but you know enough. And the time has come to prove if we can really trust you, or if we should be more… Suspicious.” A final, painful squeeze, and that hand is blessedly gone as Fasul steps back with a nod to Dinny. Suddenly, Face is released and he stumbles a moment, quickly regaining his footing as the warlord snatches a gun from one of the watching men, holding it out to Face, who takes it reluctantly. 

Looking at the women lined up in front of him, quivering and trembling, gagged and bound, Face suddenly knows what they are expecting him to do. His brain races desperately to come up with a plan – even if he had a gun, shooting them in cold blood is not an option, no plan at all – but what words can he say that will change things? Shooting Fasul would be incredibly satisfying but would only buy him a bullet of his own. Shooting himself might be an option, one way to spare himself a lot of pain before they kill him, but he isn’t a quitter, he’s a survivor. There’s another option here, somewhere, something he’s missing…

Thankfully, he has no more time to think, because at that precise moment there is an enormous explosion, and everything goes up in a ball of flames and smoke, throwing the whole warehouse into darkness. 

* * *

Afterwards, Hannibal wouldn’t remember much about what actually happened that night, as the sun finally set on the industrial unit in the desert and darkness descended on the warehouses filled with illegal wares. Afterwards, he wouldn’t remember the details, not who shot what weapon at what moment, not which grenade set off which explosion. Afterwards, it would all just seem like a chaotic blur of action, of explosions and fistfights and his incredible team of Rangers doing what they do best. 

But at the time, Hannibal loses himself in the attack completely, plans improvised and executed in seconds, his team responding to his shouted orders instantly, any pretence of stealth long since abandoned after that first explosion. A carefully aimed grenade that took out a smaller warehouse, one used to store some of Fasul’s illegally gained weapons, setting off a chain reaction that soon had the entire area in chaos.

Chaos it is, certainly, but controlled chaos. Or at least, Hannibal is the one controlling the chaos, not Fasul or his men, and he revels in the feeling of finally being able to act after so long spent watching and waiting and recording. Taking out Fasul’s guards one at a time, directing his team to sweep through warehouse after warehouse, rounding up the men they capture and hoarding them into a corner, guards of their own posted. 

All those long, hard hours of surveillance pay off at last – Hannibal knows enough, or suspects enough, about which warehouses are used purely for storage and which ones are used to house the women, men and children who are brought here against their will. He knows which ones to prioritise in the attack, which ones to search first and which ones can wait until later. He knows enough about the numbers of guards in the unit, and knows roughly where they were stationed when the attack began – even though Fasul had known he was being watched, he couldn’t have known the number of men at Hannibal’s disposal, which means that even though it isn’t as many men as he would have liked, Hannibal has every advantage and he uses them all. After nearly three weeks, he’s had enough of this and he wants it done and finished.

Controlled chaos, and at the time Hannibal has no idea just how long the initial attack lasts for. Later, his watch will tell him it took only twenty two minutes to storm the industrial unit and round up Fasul’s men, only twenty two minutes to have the place secure and start searching the many shipping containers stacked high in the larger warehouses. His boys are all riding the adrenaline high – two of them have minor gunshot wounds, another three have knife wounds, but they are all walking wounded, Hannibal’s medic able to patch them up and send them back to work. 

The adrenaline high is incredible, as it always is, the ‘jazz’ as Hannibal likes to think of it, feeling it racing through his veins and setting his whole world ablaze. But it is effectively counteracted by the nagging terror he’s trying to ignore – he hasn’t found Face, not yet, and he wants to rip each and every one of Fasul’s men apart until they tell him where his boy is. 

They have found somewhere in the region of thirty women, mostly in terrible physical condition, starving and beaten. They have also found twelve children – mostly girls under the age of ten, though they are so skinny and terrified they have no way to be sure – and twenty or so young men, all blonde-haired and blue-eyed, Scandinavian Hannibal thinks. All of them so silent and staring, few tears even as the Rangers use bolt cutters to free them of their chains. Hannibal’s heart breaks to think of what they’ve been through, and he sees more than one of his men visibly upset at the horrific conditions they have been kept in.

They have found vast stores of weapons, including most of the weapons ‘traded’ by Jackson and his team, arranged through Face. They have found some evidence of drugs, some locked metal safe-boxes that will need careful opening, and of course to search all the warehouses properly will take days. That will be handled by a more specialist team, a CIA team led by Agent Smith ready to move in once the Rangers have cleared the immediate danger, but Hannibal tells his men to keep searching for now – they don’t know how many people are here against their will, and they still don’t know where Face is.

They do know where Fasul and Dinny are, and that at least is a huge relief – one massive part of their mission has been achieved. After their attack began, there were two or three jeeps that made off from the site at high speed, despite the sharpshooters Hannibal had positioned to stop any attempts at escape. Rats fleeing a sinking ship, though they are about as far from the coast as Hannibal can ever remember being. He’d been worried that the warlord and his two right-hand men had been in one of those jeeps, quick to flee the scene of their crimes, but he needn’t have worried. 

In the biggest warehouse, in a distant corner, they’d found Dinny. What was left of him at least, his lower body crushed beneath one of those giant metal containers which had toppled over from the force of the explosions. Not ideal – Hannibal wanted them all alive, to answer for the crimes they had committed and to name their other accomplices – but at least they had him, and he would never strike another deal. Would never ruin any more innocent lives.

Fasul appeared to have been in the same area, but had made it a little way away from where Dinny’s body lay before losing consciousness. Hannibal had been the one to find him, racing as quickly as he dared into the warehouse he’d seen Face being escorted into – a heavily bleeding head wound, numerous other cuts and bruises visible on his body, but hopefully nothing fatal. The team’s medic had taken charge of his care and seemed confident the warlord would recover to stand trial. If the CIA ever take him to trial – Hannibal knows, far more likely, Fasul will vanish into the system. 

No sign of Face. No Jock, either, but Hannibal cares far less about his whereabouts – everything in him wants to tear the place apart looking for his boy, but his team aren’t safe yet, there is still danger at every turn, and he has to stay focussed. Has to be The Colonel for a little longer yet. Won’t think that maybe his lover is crushed beneath one of those heavy containers. Won’t think that, perhaps, his rescue attempt might have killed the man he loves more than life. Face is alive, somewhere, perhaps in one of those escaping jeeps, Jock holding a gun to his head. Alive, if not quite safe yet. He has to be.

Don’t think about that, Hannibal scolds himself, throwing himself back into his work. The initial chaos of the attack fades into the more controlled chaos of searching and taking care of the people they rescue, as well as guarding Fasul’s men and looking after Fasul’s injuries. The warlord still hasn’t regained consciousness, though the CIA’s team are coming now and the Red Cross are also on their way, but Hannibal still can’t stop. Has to stay in charge, back on the radio now almost constantly with Jackson and Marsh as the other two Ranger units begin to reach the end of their own attacks.

Successful attacks so far, by the sounds of things, and Hannibal loses himself in the planning that still has to be done. Marsh’s team have taken some heavy fire and have a few boys in need of medevac, so Hannibal coordinates that, even as he waits for word from Jackson. Things at the security base have gone slower than expected, and the Major reports that two jeeps have arrived back, from the direction of the warehouses. 

And in one of them – 

* * *

Jock hauls him out of the jeep by the scruff of his neck, heading straight into the rear of the building, and it’s all Face can do to get his feet under him and keep up rather than letting himself be dragged. Or worse, shot. The other man still has a gun in his hand, pressed painfully into the side of Face’s neck, and a bullet through the throat is not the way he wants to go. So he waits, bides his time, tries to keep up. Tries to stay alive a little longer.

After the explosions ripped through the warehouse, sending everything into darkness and chaos, Face had lain stunned for a long moment, not able to move, listening to the sounds of metal crashing then settling as the containers shifted around them, some smashing to the floor far too close for comfort. Sounds of gunfire followed soon after, and angry shouts in both English and Pashto, and Face had known Hannibal was coming for him. 

The rush of confidence he’d felt at that moment hadn’t lasted long, as the sudden weight of a heavy body kneeling on his back and the unmistakable press of a gun into his cheek had slammed him back into reality. He wasn’t safe yet, and Hannibal was still far off. From then, heart racing the entire time, Jock had steered him from the chaos of the warehouse and pushed him into a jeep, that gun never wavering for even a second, and two Afghans had piled into the jeep after them, one of them driving the vehicle away from the explosions and gunfire.

Now, still with no easy way to get away from the taller man, Face manages to stumble into the security base, biting his tongue in order to stop himself making a snarky comment about how stupid it is that Jock has returned here, to their base, when all around them are the sounds of gunfire and shouting – Jackson’s team this time, a slightly less forceful attack than Hannibal’s due to the fact that some of the private contractors here are truly innocent. Or at least, innocent of any involvement in the tangled mess that Fasul has created.

Jock doesn’t say a word to him until they reach one of the offices out back, until he slams Face into the wall by the door, keeping that gun pressed far too close for comfort as the Scot rummages in his own pockets for a key. “Just got to pick up something,” he murmurs, his accent stronger than Face has ever heard it. “Just got to get this, they can’t get this. Then you’re coming with me, my pretty boy. You’re my ticket out of this mess of shit.”

“What the fuck, man…?” Face finally feels confident enough to risk speaking, as Jock wrenches the door open and throws him inside, slamming and locking it behind them both. That gun is trained on him again soon enough though, so all he can do is bide his time. At least that explains why Jock has kept him alive this long.

“Goddam paper-trail… Keep telling Dinny to keep it all on the fucking computer, but try telling that to fucking Fasul…”

“You know who’s out there?” Face dares to ask, pushing himself slowly up to a sitting position from where he’d landed on the floor near the desk. “Rangers, man. You said it yourself – ”

“Shut up!” Jock drops the folder he’d been flicking through and takes one giant step closer to him, that gun up and directly in his face. “Just shut the fuck up, man!”

Swallowing hard but pressing on, Face keeps his voice calm and steady as he stares into the barrel of that gun. “You think I’m gonna keep you safe? You think they want me?”

“I think either Dave screwed us over proper, or you did. Either way, it’s the Rangers – I walk out of here with a gun to your head, they aren’t gonna shoot me.” The big man is trying to sound confident, and he starts rifling one-handed through the files on the desk again, gradually building himself a pile and swearing under his breath the whole time. “What the fuck… where is it, where’s that… Shit, why isn’t it here…?”

Face sits as still as he can, body tense and ready to move, his eyes flicking back and forth between Jock’s face and the hand that holds the gun trained on him. He waits, controlling his breathing, until the moment the big man’s aim falters slightly, until his eyes finally spy whatever the hell he’s been looking for, and makes his move. Up and across the floor, two huge steps, grab the hand with the gun, grab the arm, twist up, round, feet just so – and Jock screams in pain as something in his wrist snaps loudly, the gun clattering to the floor between them.

But before Face can get Jock to the ground, the Scot makes his own move and soon fists are flying, Face’s controlled martial arts moves against the sheer power and street-fighting skills of the burly security consultant. “Where do you think you’re gonna go?” Face growls at him, even as he ducks a heavy punch, landing one of his own into the bigger man’s kidneys. “You think the Rangers will just let you walk away?”

“I think they care more about Fasul than a middle man like me.” Jock moves with the punch, using Face’s own momentum to swing him around and slam him face-first onto the desk. Even as Face struggles to push up, the Scot uses his weight advantage to pin him down, grabbing both of Face’s wrists in one huge hand and ripping the shirt from his body with the other. “And I think I’m not so important to them as you are. Mr Ex-Ranger Jim Carter – I’m thinking, you’re not so ‘ex’, am I right?” A painful squeeze to his bicep, right over that tattoo Face is so proud of, then words hissed directly into his ear that send chills straight to his heart. “Now, I think we’ve got a minute here, since I’ve got you in the perfect position. How about we play, just a little?”

“Fuck you,” Face spits out, struggling desperately to get his wrists free, to get Jock’s weight off his back, but the Scot just laughs, producing a sachet of lube and a silver-wrapped condom from somewhere, slamming them down on the desk directly in Face’s line of sight.

“No,” Jock whispers. “The idea is to fuck you, pretty boy.”

No chance in hell, Face thinks, and the surge of adrenaline rips through him with a roar as he heaves himself upwards, slamming his head back into Jock’s nose as he manages to break his wrists free at last. He hasn’t survived three weeks of undercover work, hasn’t evaded Fasul’s groping hands, only to be raped at the last possible minute. Not by this big, beefy, stupid lump of muscle, this drug dealing scum, this man who deals in women and children as if they were no more than pieces of meat… No fucking chance.

Everything he’s been hiding these last few weeks comes to the fore, and Face doesn’t hold anything back as he lays into Jock with fists and feet, his attack less coordinated than before but far stronger. He doesn’t waste his energy on shouts or screams as he hits, Hannibal’s oft-repeated lessons ringing clearly in his ears instead – use your strength correctly, kid, a scream won’t hurt them but a damn good punch will. 

Jock tries to fight back, of course he does, but Face is unstoppable now, in the zone, adrenaline thundering through his veins and lending him extra speed and strength. He slams Jock into the desk, smashes him into a filing cabinet, hurls him into the wall face-first, and eventually the bigger man stops struggling, going limp in Face’s hands and dropping in a heap to the floor. 

It takes some effort to stop, but Face manages it. He doesn’t want to kill Jock, not really, though he’s tempted – the people this man has hurt, the lives he’s ruined… He deserves it, really he does, and it would be so easy…

Jock gurgles pathetically as he tries to roll over from his crumpled position, his face a mask of blood, one shoulder clearly dislocated, one wrist at an odd angle, bruises around his neck, clothes torn and bloody. Face tries to catch his breath, standing over the man and just watching, finding himself smiling slightly. He’s come out of things well, surprisingly, a few bruises and sore muscles, but not even a black eye or a split lip for his troubles. Nothing that can’t be fixed by a hot shower and some time with Hannibal.

Thoughts of Hannibal make him smile even wider, though they are tinged with worry. He has no idea how the operation is going, no idea how Hannibal’s team are doing, nor even any idea how Jackson’s team are doing out front here, though the gunfire is closer now. They aren’t home safe yet. Soon though, real soon now.

“You’re not worth it,” he murmurs, using the toe of his boot to flip Jock over onto his back. “You’re pathetic. Scum, man, really. Just scum.” No response except another groan, and Face reaches for the shredded remains of his own shirt to tie the man up. “Beaten up by the ‘pretty boy’, they won’t let you live that down.” 

The work of seconds to have Jock tied to the desk by his hands – it’s one of those big old metal desks that weigh a tonne, and Face is fairly convinced the semiconscious man at his feet has no chance of getting out of that before Jackson’s team get back here. Straightening up again, he stretches the kinks out of his neck before glancing briefly at the files on top of the desk, the files Jock was so desperate to conceal. Just in case the man gets free, he gathers up the pile into his arms, planning to deliver them to Agent Smith himself. Must be important if Jock risked capture to come back here rather than driving straight into the darkness of the desert night.

So many questions burning in his mind, and he stops for a second to decide his next course of action. Get out front, meet up with Jackson. Find out what’s been happening elsewhere, find out if everyone is okay. Find out if Hannibal is okay, let his lover know that Face himself is okay, somehow. And then get the hell out of here and back to where he belongs. 

With that thought, Face nods once, smiling again, and hugs the files to his chest a little more securely. Just before he turns to go, he spies the little sachet of lube lying abandoned on the desk, the condom disappeared to god-knows-where, and he laughs out loud as he slips it into the pocket of his cargo pants.

“Shame to waste that, huh, Jock?” And with a final kick to the limp man at his feet, Face leaves the little office to see what the rest of the night will bring. 

* * *

It’s dawn before the CIA teams eventually turn up at the warehouses, and Hannibal stands waiting impatiently at the main gates, one hand on his hips, the other holding a smouldering cigar. Watching the black vans as they finally approach from the desert, just as the sun begins to light up the sky over the dunes.

It’s been a long night, but Hannibal and all his boys are only just now starting to come down from the adrenaline high of the mission. The Red Cross teams showed up an hour ago, taking over the care of the men, women and children rescued by the Rangers, leaving Hannibal’s men free to concentrate on making the place as safe and secure as they can. The industrial unit hasn’t revealed any nasty hidden surprises, thankfully, though it really will take the CIA teams several days to go through it thoroughly. Fasul’s men have all been locked in one of the storage containers – one of the same ones they used to keep the women chained up inside – while Fasul himself is handcuffed to a makeshift bed, a doctor from the Red Cross working with Hannibal’s weary medic until he can be transferred to a secure hospital. 

The warlord is awake now, at least, even if he does appear to be somewhat confused after his head injury, though Hannibal suspects he may well be faking it in part too. He’s refusing to speak English, then refusing to answer any questions in Pashto, and right now Hannibal doesn’t really give a damn – the CIA can have him, for all he cares, when they finally do get here. He’s just about done with the whole thing, more than ready to get back to his own base and find his boy.

He’d finally gotten the call he’d been waiting for two hours ago, in the darkest part of the night – Jackson had the security company’s base under his control at last, and Face was with him, safe and sound and in possession of certain documents that detailed exactly who at the company was involved with Fasul’s schemes, as well as lists of further contacts, especially on the drug dealing side. That’ll certainly make it a lot easier to tease out who is guilty of what, but even as Jackson was explaining some of the details, all Hannibal could really hear was the pounding rush of blood in his ears. Face was safe. Truly safe, back with the Rangers at last, even if not quite back with his own team yet.

Watching the black vans driving out of the desert now, Hannibal fingers the little radio clipped on his belt. He’s left it on, and the comforting sounds of murmured chatter back and forth between Jackson’s team and Marsh’s boys fill the eerie quiet on the edge of the industrial unit. Colonel Marsh is already on his way here to rendezvous with Hannibal, while Jackson is preparing his men to head back to base via a different route. Hannibal has been able to speak to Face again, just very briefly, just a quick ‘hello and well done’ but it had been enough to settle his panic and calm his soul, just as he suspected the two second conversation had probably done the same for Face.

If the mysterious and scheming Agent Smith ever hurries up, Hannibal can get this finished, can get the site handed over to the CIA search teams, the regular Army can move in to provide any support necessary, and Hannibal can load his boys up into their own vehicles and finally head back to their own base, victorious. And then he can find Face – he has to see for his own eyes, needs to see his young lover is really safe and uninjured. He can’t quite believe Face has walked away from all this with nothing more than a few small bruises, but he’d always known that, if anyone could pull this off, Face could, and he would do it in style. Face has truly been brilliant these past weeks, and Hannibal is looking forward to hearing the details of all that time spent undercover, but that can all wait until after he’s stripped his lover bare and gone over every inch of that incredible body with his hands, and his lips.

Finally, the first van reaches the main gates, gates which are hanging from their hinges after the Rangers’ attack. Hannibal offers the driver a nod, pointing with his cigar towards the largest warehouse, where there is space to park up by the RC vehicles, and where most of the work is being done. He spies Smith in the passenger seat, clearly wearing every piece of bulky body armour he could lay his hands on, and bites down hard on that cigar as he follows the van. He has some unfinished business with the Agent, certainly, something he’s been looking forward to for some time.

* * *

As the sun slowly climbs higher in the sky, the new day dawning bright and clear, Face returns for the very last time to the tiny room he’s called home for the past few weeks. Nothing much he wants to keep from here, really; there is some civilian clothing he has no use for in his normal life, and a few books and magazines borrowed from the guys here, but he does need to retrieve his radio, and he does need a decent shirt, anything other than the scruffy grey t-shirt he found to pull on after Jock ripped his other one to shreds.

The base is still filled with a hubbub of voices, all the security guys now holed up in one of the larger communal areas, being interrogated one at a time by the CIA team who had finally turned up an hour ago, taking charge of everything and gladly accepting the folders of paperwork he’d taken from Jock. No sign of Agent Smith, though, so Face assumes he’s headed for Hannibal’s position, and good luck to the man. Face has no real desire to see him any time soon, though there will almost certainly be debriefs at some point in the not-too-distant future, but he’s sure Hannibal will have some strong words for the Agent in the meantime. At the very least.

And so it is with thoughts of Hannibal that Face finally shakes himself into action, rummaging through his meagre pile of clean clothes to find something decent to wear. This will be the first time he’s seen his lover in nearly three weeks, though he suspects Hannibal will have been able to snatch glimpses of him from a distance at least, and he’s glad he has a moment to put himself together properly. His cargo pants and boots will just have to do – and he certainly hasn’t forgotten about his little prize, ready and waiting in his pocket for the first instant he manages to get Hannibal alone – but finally he finds a faded blue shirt, not his usual style, but one he knows will hug his muscles well. A luxury to have the time to put together an outfit, at least, while Jackson finishes the handover and gathers his men. It’s far better that Face stays out of the way right now, rather than letting the security team know for sure that he’s been working undercover, though they probably already suspect something similar.

So, blue shirt on, Face quickly checks his reflection in the mirror. He’s already washed his face and scrubbed his wet hands through his hair, and his curls are hanging a little wild now. No time to fix that, nor any time to shave, but he knows how much his lover adores running his big hands through his hair and stroking his stubbly cheek and chin, so no great problem with any of that. Grabbing his sunglasses for later, checking the radio is safe in his kitbag, he stands for just a moment in the middle of the room, gathering himself.

He should be exhausted, by all rights. He’s been up all night, and it promises to be a long day, heading back to the base with Jackson and the guys, then debriefs and reports and meetings until they finally let him fall into his own bed, in a tent in the middle of a military base. But in the middle of all that, somewhere, sooner rather than later hopefully, is Hannibal, and that thought lends him energy and strength.

Face suddenly finds his chest a little tight as he lets himself really think about his lover, Hannibal’s face so clear in his mind. Those blue-grey eyes that show every ounce of emotion the older man feels, that short silver hair Face loves so very much. An ever-present cigar clenched between smiling lips, a halo of sweet-smelling smoke curling around him. He’s missed his man so much it almost hurts, now that he’s finally letting himself think about how hard it’s really been to be apart, but the waiting is nearly over now. Not long until he can bury himself in Hannibal’s strong arms, lose himself in Hannibal’s kiss, feel his body finally filled again as Hannibal makes love to him over and over.

Working undercover has been one hell of an experience, and he’s certainly glad he took on the challenge, but it’s finally done now. He doesn’t know if it’s something he’ll be doing again anytime soon, if he’s honest with himself, though there were certainly parts that were fun and parts that he knew he’d done well, done very easily in fact. But it’s all been so very different from running his little scams and trades around base, safe in the knowledge that the worst that can happen is a court martial. It’s all been a little too real, too dangerous, even though he knew it would be when he agreed to go with Agent Smith that day, three weeks ago. 

So much tension, so many hours spent waiting to see what would happen next. Dodging Fasul and Jock, yet needing to be close to both. Cosying up to Dinny, one conman observing another. Hours of tedium, playing the part of a genuine security consultant – none of this has been what he joined the Rangers for, and he’s relieved it’s over, though at the same time he doesn’t regret doing it, not really. It needed doing, and he knows a lot of innocent lives will be saved with Fasul’s empire dismantled. Drugs that will never reach the street. Weapons that will never fall into the wrong hands.

But he’s ready to go now. It’s been long enough, too long, away from his team. Away from his CO, his lover. 

“I’m on my way, boss,” he murmurs with a smile, swinging his kitbag over his shoulder and leaving the room, closing the door behind himself for the last time. “I’m coming home.”

* * *

“Not bad, Colonel.” Agent Smith sounds surprised, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against one of the CIA’s huge black vans as Hannibal finally finishes his preliminary report. The CIA team have swept through the industrial unit, taking over quickly and efficiently from the tired Rangers. Far more efficiently than Hannibal had expected, actually, and he’s been a little impressed despite his doubts. “Even though we had to move earlier than planned, I’m more than pleased with the results, from all three teams. You’ve heard, of course, that Lieutenant Peck managed to obtain several key pieces of evidence, as well as getting Jock into custody?”

“I heard.” Hannibal doesn’t yet know the details of exactly what went down between Face and Jock, but he’s more than glad the man is alive to stand trial and answer the questions they can’t ask Dinny. He’ll have to see if he can’t pay the man a visit at some point – the memory of the big man’s arm around his boy’s shoulders is still burning in his mind, and he needs to see Face so very badly right now, so badly it takes everything he has to stay still by Smith’s side as he starts speaking again.

“That young Lieutenant of yours has done very well, by all accounts. Very well indeed.” Every muscle in Hannibal’s body tenses as Smith continues, obliviously, a smug smile on his face. “I knew he’d be just the man for the job. We’ll certainly be keeping an eye on him – with natural skills like his, and a little bit of training, he could have a whole new career if he likes, once he’s done with the Rangers. Or sooner, of course. The things I could have that boy do…”

The Agent looks so very pleased with himself that any shred of self-restraint Hannibal has left simply snaps. He seizes the man by the shoulder of his stupid body armour and pulls him away from the van a few inches, only to slam him straight back, hard enough to dent the side a little. He steps closer as Smith squirms uncomfortably in his grip, turning his back to the nearby men and shielding the pair of them a fraction, leaning down until his mouth is right by the Agent’s ear before speaking, keeping his voice low and dangerous.

“You will never get another chance to use him, to abuse him in the way you have done these last weeks. You will never get your hands on another member of my team, ever again, nor any other Ranger if I have any sway. And I do.” Smith opens his mouth as if to speak, but Hannibal doesn’t give him the chance, relishing the way the smaller man cringes as he tightens his grip, lifting him up onto his tiptoes. “Make no mistake, if he’d been injured or killed, I would kill you in return. Right here. Right now.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” It’s little more than a gasp, but it gets a dark laugh from Hannibal as the Agent visibly pales.

“I would. You’ve completely abused your position, withheld information of critical importance, put Face in grave personal danger – ”

Smith makes one last attempt to stand up for himself, raising his voice a little. “He knew exactly what he was signing up for…”

“ – He had no idea, because you never told him!” Breathing hard, Hannibal stares into the Agent’s eyes for a long minute, trying to get himself under control. Bad idea, this was a bad idea. This isn’t the time or the place for a confrontation, as much as he wants it. Confrontation will come later, in Morrison’s tent, when Hannibal can really give voice to his fury at this man who so casually held back information that could have killed Face. Heaving a sigh, he slams Smith against the van one last time before peeling his fingers away from the man’s body armour and stepping away, straightening to his full height and towering over the shorter man. “You’re lucky,” he states as Smith tries to steady himself against the vehicle. “You aren’t worth it. If anything had happened to him…”

Leaving his threat hanging, he reaches into his pocket for a fresh cigar, lighting it up and blowing a satisfying lungful of smoke into Smith’s face before turning to walk away, back to his waiting men, back to meet up with Marsh and his boys, back to his lover. He needs Face like he needs air, needs him right the hell now, but he knows there is still a long morning ahead of him – travel, then unpacking, organising the chaos involved in three returning teams of tired Rangers. But he’ll see Face soon enough, and Smith is less than worthless right now.

But of course the Agent can’t just let him go, can’t just thank his lucky stars and keep his goddam mouth shut for two more minutes. His voice carries clearly across the few metres between them, still a slight hint of fear there but he’s making an obvious attempt to sound cocky and confident once more in front of his men. “I’ve done my job, Colonel. As you’ve done yours, and Lieutenant Peck has done his. Morrison will agree with me. It’s been nothing more than that. Don’t take it so personally.”

Of course it’s personal, for every Ranger here it’s been personal , with the life of one of their brothers on the line. Hannibal doesn’t hesitate as the red mist descends over him with Smith’s careless words. Three steps is all it takes, three steps and his fist connects with the underside of Smith’s jaw, lifting the Agent up off his feet and slamming him back into the side of the van. The sound of the man’s head crashing into the metal is incredibly satisfying, as is the sight of his eyes rolling back in his head and his limp body sliding slowly down until it lands in a crumpled heap on the floor at Hannibal’s feet. 

“Try not to take that personally, Agent Smith. All your fancy body armour didn’t protect you from that impersonal punch, now did it?” Hannibal forces himself to unclench his fist, cigar still held tight in his other hand, even as he becomes aware of a hushed silence falling around him. Several of his boys are close by and they all nod their approval, one even throwing him a thumbs-up, while a few of the CIA agents look horrified, although he can’t help noticing that not one of them moves to help Smith up, even though the man is already stirring feebly against the wheel of the van. “My fist slipped,” he tells them with an apologetic shrug, before turning on his heel and simply walking away. 

Away from the pathetic Agent Smith and his scheming ways. Away from Fasul and all his dirty dealings, away from the deceased Dinny and the captured Jock. Away from the longest three weeks he’s ever known in his life. And he walks towards the new day, a day where he will finally have his boy back in his arms. He walks towards Face.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written after I'd finished and posted 'Desert Reunion', in response to questions about what had happened, particularly what the undercover mission had been. After this I was asked for a sequel, which is titled 'Just Let It Go'.


End file.
